


The Morbid Beauty of Crimson Petals

by Seeryvi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adam Milligan is Not Forgotten, Alcohol, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angst, Awesome Rowena MacLeod, Blood, But the friendly family kinda thing, Canon Universe, Case Fic, Castiel (Supernatural) Is On The Asexual Spectrum, Castiel Drives the Impala (Supernatural), Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Castiel's Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Conversations in the Impala (Supernatural), Crying Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has a Sexuality Crisis, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Says "I Love You", Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Dean has an Off-Screen Hook-Up, Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx Mixtape, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Guilt, Hanahaki Disease, He did it my friends!!, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I gave Castiel’s Female Vessel a Name, I just want them to talk about him okay, Injury, Jealousy, John Winchester’s A+ parenting, M/M, Men Crying, No Smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Third Person, Sam Winchester is So Done, Sexuality Crisis, Spells & Enchantments, Team Free Will (Supernatural), The Impala (Supernatural), Touching, Witch Curses, Witch Sam Winchester, no beta we die like men, or whatever really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seeryvi/pseuds/Seeryvi
Summary: - Hanahaki; a fictional disease in which flowers start blooming in the victim’s lungs due to unrequited love, slowly suffocating them. Can only be cured by the person in question reciprocating the victim’s feelings. -Heavily inspired by the Hanahaki Disease. Now as a curse barely anyone knows!Not set anywhere specific, but about post season 11.After a witch hunt gone wrong, Castiel ended up with a spell inflicted on him that no one seemed to have ever heard of before. With the book it had originated from gone up in flames and no other clues, the Angel and the Winchesters can only watch as his conditions worsens while frantically looking for a cure.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Rowena MacLeod, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Original Non-Binary Character, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester
Comments: 58
Kudos: 192





	1. A Witch And A Spell

**Author's Note:**

> I’m feeling so many feelings about this series that I _only _discovered, because I’ve been cooped up in my home for months! And I just really want to put all my feelings into words, to give you a part of the joy I feel!__
> 
> Becky would be proud!

“These _damn_ witches man,” an unhappy voice grumbled, the man snatching a bottle of beer from the fridge before sinking into one of the nearby chairs. His grumpy mumbling went on while he ignored the stinging of the cuts and bruises littering his face, the blossoming pain in his leg and the burn wound on his shoulder from where the witch in question had violently fought against him. Not even the taste of his favorite beer—or any alcohol for that matter—could lift his mood, and he barely even registered the two figures finally sitting down in the chairs across from him.

The tallest of the three tipped back in his seat, momentarily resting his arm over his closed eyes and dragging a deep sigh through his lungs. It was late at night and they had barely gotten any sleep, having driven for hours on end just to make it back home to the bunker as quickly as possible. For it was the only place where they felt truly _safe_.

Not that the man clad in a trench coat needed any sleep. He was the most aware of the three, reaching two fingers over to the lanky man beside him to brush them against his forehead in a quick gesture. For a second pleasant warmth spread through his fingers, dancing like sparks on his skin, before settling into the body and easing the pain of an earlier hunt.

“Thanks, Cass,” came the usual, but no less grateful reply spoken through yet another tired sigh.

Without waiting for any refusal—nor accepting any—he leaned across the table to the most battered of the three. As always he took the brunt of the damage, throwing himself in harms way whenever possible with no regard for his own well being. And if it came badly he would go as far as to refuse any healing, morbidly thinking he deserved the pain.

It was a _disaster_ , really.

“Cass—“ an arm weakly tried to hold onto the angel, but he effortlessly brushed past, face tainted with frustrated worry before his palm finally came into gentle contact with the man’s forehead. A warning wince erupted from the man in question.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cass replied to the noise, voice stern, and immediately a comfortable warmth rushed through his hand, spreading through Dean’s body and engulfing him like a heated blanket. The man couldn’t help but slightly lean into the angel’s touch as all pain left him, fled his body like someone receiving an eviction notice—yet as sudden as it appeared, the soothing feeling left soon after as Cass withdrew his hand.

“...Thanks.”

The silence that followed was only interrupted by incessant writing on parchment.

“Sam,” Dean spoke up, hint of a smile gracing his tired face, “What’re you writing? Can’t your nerd things wait ‘til tomorrow?”

At that Sam threw him a look so indescribable but somehow all-telling that even Cass could easily detect it as one of the ‘bitch-faces’ Dean was always describing with a grin tugging fondly at his lips.

“If you have some sort of _incredibly_ great memory hidden from me, then by all means—write it down for me tomorrow.”

From what Cass had gathered over the years such bickering was normal for the Winchester brothers. While the angels, despite technically being siblings and constantly addressing each other as such, had never seen the need to indulge in such banter, at least the archangels seemed to have their own moments of surprising, incredibly humanlike sibling-ness. Being a mere angel, Castiel in particular had never really been one to participate. At least not until he had met the Winchesters.

Sam was grinning now, too, only amplified by the fact that he had almost managed to fall asleep in the car twice, yet somehow always immediately woke up before his head even had the chance to hit the window.

“Cass, how are you feeling so far?” Sam spoke up once more, piercing the angel with an analytical gaze that only slightly seemed off as his eyes continued to droop closed against his will, “Is whatever the witch did showing any reaction?”

Dean perked up from behind his bottle, decidedly taking in Castiel’s condition along with Sam and he couldn’t help but falter under their intense stare. For a moment he closed his eyes, trying to let his grace pick up on anything that might potentially seem wrong inside of his body, feeling the cooling energy rush through every blood vessel, every cell, _everything_.

“There might be a little,” he grasped for the right word, eyes looking at the ceiling to not notice their worry, “ _Disturbance_.”

It almost felt to be coming from his chest, even though the pain he had felt upon getting hit had completely subsided.

“I can’t quite place it, but otherwise I am alright.”

Looking back down their concern only seemed to have intensified, even though it seemed they were much too tired to form proper, coherent thoughts—at least for the rest of the night.

“Why don’t the two of you go to sleep while I write down what we have discovered?” Castiel offered instead, changing the topic and gently prying the pen out of Sam’s hand before he could even just think of refusing.

“...I’d keep you from sitting here alone in the library for _god_ knows how long writing this down—“ Dean began thinking more clearly about whether Cass was _indeed_ alright, before he got interrupted by a yawn crawling up his throat— “But I’m _far_ too tired and I know you don’t sleep.”

He pushed himself out of his chair, groggily starting to stand.

“So, see you in the morning.”

Cue another bitch face from Sam at Dean—Cass was getting better at deciphering them. Apparently Sam had deemed his brother to have been acting tactless and rude. Or it just meant that he needed a visit to the lavatory judging by the tension in his features. Castiel wasn’t sure; he wasn’t immune to error after all.

With a shift in his seat Sam turned to him, giving him a firm pat on his shoulder and uttering words of gratitude before stumbling onwards after his brother like a zombie. Cass was merely glad that they were going to get some rest.

Shifting his focus back to the half written page in front of him, he regarded the wobbly handwriting with narrowed eyes. The ‘l’s were almost _too_ loopy if not to say ‘sloppy’, and Sam had managed to forget more than half of the dots meant to mark the ‘i’s, as well as written across the lines in a rather concerning amount of instances. The entire paper had more the feeling of a children’s letter, despite the gruesome deeds hidden behind almost illegibly scrawled words.

Picking up a new sheet of paper Cass began transcribing Sam’s messy notes in something readable before adding on, reminiscing what they had found out as it played before his eyes: The musty ground before the witch’s hidden entrance leaving wet soil sticking to all of their soles, the faint flowery scent upon entering through the creaky door, mixing with the stench of wither and decay in an almost morbid sense.

_Life_ versus _Death_.

Flowers, sign of beginnings and growth, birth and life versus corpses, epitome of endings and stagnation, of rot and death. The world shifted into focus as Castiel remembered the book; an old tome draped in old and worn leather with its cover clad in yellow. It seemed odd now, how a book for witches, old manuscript about curses and the sort could be wrapped in such a happy, lively color.

He shrugged the thought off and wrote, pen flawlessly gliding across the paper to capture their latest adventure. Sam had wanted to implore more about the book, being almost unbelievably curious about its contents, but the witch had arrived too early, snatching it from their wary eyes. Now only the memory of it remained as it went up in flames, together with the witch. There was a symbol on the front, he remembered, drawn in sharp, inky black, carved into the yellow and Castiel gave his best to copy the rune the way he saw it in front of his eyes.

Considering the sheer amount of symbols already ingrained in his brain over millennia of experience, what was one more? Even though he was surprised he had not yet seen it. From what it appeared, it seemed to have slight touches of asia—perhaps its origin?

He placed the quill down with a careful flick of his wrist, a wince striking his body as his mind once more strayed to today’s encounter. More specifically, to the spell that had hit his body head on. Instantly he remembered the way he had felt his lungs momentarily refrain from working, feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge to cough, to claw at his chest. Something had seemed to weigh heavy within him, as if he had been dumped under masses of water or laid down to rest under tons of concrete. An Angel of the Lord, once thought invincible now momentarily being rendered useless by a mere witch’s spell?

Previously deemed completely unthinkable.

Dean had immediately yelled his name in sudden shock, cocking his gun and aiming a few couple of witch-killing bullets at the person’s head until one had finally hit, his aim off due to his head swimming with pain, blood dripping down his cheek while he clutched his shoulder in obvious agony through grit teeth. Sam wasn’t quick enough to rise from his crumpled up position on the floor thanks to his injuries, barely even managing to try and tear the book from the witch’s clutch before it got engulfed in flames by the sorcerer’s own hand. As if to ensure that whatever had hit Castiel was to stay for forever—whatever it was. Because soon after the flames had died down, once silence had encased them like a heavy blanket, the pain swelling in his chest had dissipated and his breathing had returned to normal as if there had never been a problem at all.

Still, the Winchesters kept asking him for his well-being, throwing him into the back of the Impala and immediately driving off, refusing any healing until they were home and safe. Even though he had repeatedly stated that he was fine throughout the entirety of their trip.

Dean had insisted to drive and Cass had reached over in his seat in the middle of him driving to at least cure his head injury, despite Dean’s hands furiously swatting at his firm grasp. At least the drive went more smoothly afterwards—less swaying into the wrong lane, which Sam didn’t even pick up on as he was halfway out of it in a desperate attempt to sleep.

Now that he thought of the witch, a slight scratch appeared in the back of his throat he was quick to write off. A glass of water, he decided, standing and trudging over to the kitchen with purposeful steps, light growing faint behind him as he relied on his ability to find his way around the bunker in the dark.

A glass of water might be nice.

——————

A glass of water hadn’t been enough.

He was still clearing his throat periodically, even as Sam and Dean finally emerged from their sleep, entering the library with mugs filled with steaming hot coffee in their hands. Sam’s look immediately turned worried once his eyes fell on the angel who had his hand in front of his mouth as he tried to suppress the further urge to cough.

“Everything alright man?” Dean was the first to speak though, setting down his mug on the table and falling into the chair across from Cass like a bag of flour, green eyes filled with concern. Seeing an angel struggle for breath must be an odd occurrence, Cass could only agree with the notion as his lungs gave a suspicions jab he tried his best to ignore. Worrying the brothers didn’t help anyone for one, and he could very well live without Dean’s concerned eyes almost desperately trying to catch his own.

“Yes,” he easily replied, “I’m fine.”

There was silence in which they most likely caught onto his lie, thoroughly gauging his condition and apparently not finding enough of immediate danger amiss, before Sam finally settled into the chair between Cass and Dean at the end of the table. Castiel quietly slipped the piece of parchment of last night over to Sam and watched as he skimmed it with a certain hint of academic scrutiny, watched Sam skim it if only to distract himself from Dean’s still disbelieving frown pulling at his features, yearning for attention in the corner of his eyes.

“Thanks, Cass,” Sam said, giving the paper a firm pat before picking it up, rising in his seat and walking away with a wave of his phone in hand.

The angel only stared at the man’s retreating form, almost refusing to look at Dean as he refused to find any sort of pity in his eyes. But gravity made him look over once more, inwardly easing a released sigh out of his scratchy throat as he noted the man to open his laptop, clacking away on the keys. The noise was a welcomed distraction, filling the silence of the room in a way that fortunately didn’t grow awkward in the slightest.

Soon Sam returned, letting the paper sink back onto the table before taking refuge in his former seat. Placing both hands on top of the parchment, intertwining them, he pressed his lips into a firm line before he opened his mouth to speak, “I gave Rowena a call, sent her a picture of the rune. She said she’ll look further into it.”

His mouth turned into a quick grimace not devoid of fondness while he added on, “Though she might want something of us in exchange later.”

“Obviously,” Dean grumbled, taking another sip of his coffee, probably to chase away the remnants of far too much alcohol of the day prior mixed with a terrible sleep schedule Cass noted down for further investigation in the back of his head, “Woman does nothing from the kindness of her heart.”

The itch in his throat persisted and he irked to distract himself by addressing Sam.

“Did you find another case for us yet?”

The man turned slowly in his seat, raising an eyebrow, but before he could speak Dean piped up with a chuckle easing out of his mouth.

“Eager for another hunt?” he asked, reaching over the table to give the angel a firm pat on the shoulder, “Seems our enthusiasm is finally bleeding onto you.”

Castiel could only give the tiniest hint of a smile as he watched Dean, felt the reassuring weight of his hand spreading warmth along his arm, momentarily forgetting about his worries.

“I _did_ , actually,” Sam piped up with a triumphant smile, waking his phone screen to reread the gist of the case he had discovered, eyes narrowed against the sharp glare of electricity, “Three hour drive from here, nothing special—most likely a couple of werewolves.”

“At least not another _witch_ ,” Dean dragged out in a sigh, sinking into the back of his chair after he had let go of Castiel’s shoulder. Even Cass was surprisingly relieved to not immediately go after another witch after last night’s encounter. Watching Dean take another sip of his coffee and feeling a jab of agony surge up like a fire burning bright in his chest he wondered if he could take another of these curses.


	2. What Makes You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel reminisces his life, doesn’t understand Dean’s desire for hook-ups and the curse worsens his condition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, blood and my attempts to explain Cass and sexuality stuff? Maybe!

The bell above the door let a busy ring chime through the diner as three figures hurried through it, dripping wet from the rain pouring down onto the streets below as if by the will of an angry god. With all the entities they had already fought against, none of them would have questioned it if that would have actually been the case.

The Impala was still standing near the motel where they had left it behind to shortly scout their surrounding environment. While Cass had welcomed the possibility to actually be surrounded by nature for once, he now missed the interior of the familiar car keeping them safe and sound and protected from the erratic changes of weather; the sun had promised such a bright day when they had left, and now there was not a single cloudless spec in the vast, grey sky.

Sam was the first to sink into the cushions of one of the booths spread around the diner, long suffering sigh dragged out as the tension left his body, followed by Cass sitting down across from him. Dean’s gaze darted briefly through the room, catching the eye of the woman currently working her way amidst the tables to pick up on people’s orders before he, too, sank into the soft cushions. Castiel watched a drop of water slide down Sam’s brown hair, falling onto the table with a soft noise, more following suit to create a little puddle.

After taking on cases one after the other for three weeks, solving problems left and right and saving people at every turn, Dean had felt like they deserved a time out—or at least a day out. Not like they would refuse if anything was amiss. And as such they had driven to a motel a few towns over, which had a museum, tons of bars and diners and enough nature left and right, which promised a great time for all three of them.

“So,” Dean spoke up, grabbing ahold of the menu and flicking it open, spreading his legs below the table, “What’re you gonna get?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Sam glanced at him with a smirk, watching him absentmindedly skim the various assorted meals portrayed on the sheet with little example pictures right next to their names, “As if you’re ever gonna take something other than _burgers_.”

The word was said with a hint of mock disgust, yet with laughter in his voice. As obsessed as Sam was with a healthy diet—one Sam still hadn’t managed to convince his older brother of and Cass doubted whether he would ever succeed—his reaction came as no surprise.

The menu was closed with a firm snap in Dean’s hand, revealing the even stupider grin looming behind the piece of paper laminated in cheap plastic.

“Which is why I asked what _you’re_ gonna get, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Light laughter filled the table, Sam’s finger pointed at a salad to which Dean gave his own mocking reply, his leg briefly brushing against Castiel’s beneath the table and for a moment the angel believed he couldn’t breathe.

It was a moment he wished he could live forever. After all the terrors and torments they had to wade through, a mere visit of a diner was creating a spark shining brightly within him that he wished would never cease. He felt safe and sound surrounded by Sam and Dean, surrounded by what he proudly called his family, felt at home with them, put at ease by their giddy laughter. Seeing the bright smile on their faces filled with mirth and joy was making him inexplicably happy, and it was one of the times he consciously realized how fortunate he felt to have fallen—to have discovered feelings together with the Winchesters.

It was a moment he wished he could live forever, until that moment was over.

“Good evening boys,” a young woman spoke, stepping up to their table with a little notepad in hand, “What can I get for ya?”

Dark hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, eyes a strong blue on her pale complexion and her lips were upturned in a kind smile. A little bit of blush accentuated her cheeks and made her seem bashful even though she confidently twirled the black pen in one hand, waiting for them to order.

“Apart from your number?” Dean’s voice almost appeared to have dropped an octave if possible, and Castiel reflexively squinted his eyes at the man, knot flaring in his lungs fiercely ignored. The angel barely noted as Dean ordered for the three of them, eyes glued to how the waitress’ cheeks flared even brighter, smile shone even stronger and to how her voice had grown more smooth along with her polite response. He was only vaguely aware of Sam’s eyes on him.

Only once she was gone did he feel the tension slightly leave his body allowing him to rest his head back against the seat, red cushions enveloping him in their used and worn condition. His hand gently brushed against a tear in the fabric as he subconsciously felt the rough filling of the booth against his fingertips.

The woman returned shortly after and Cass couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t help but wonder how his life would have developed if he could have stayed in his first vessel; Estelle McRoy.

She was an excellent vessel—a polite, young woman, honest and extraordinarily devout without any regrets regarding her time as a mere vessel of his grace. In addition to that she had been powerful, enough so to possibly have been able to host an angel for hundreds of years, if not more. The time of their departure was sudden and not nearly as unproblematic as one might have hoped; not with Naomi ordering him back to heaven, ordering him to leave the vessel—to leave Estelle behind in an instant to protect the souls from a fierce assault led by demons and angels led astray. To act as the soldier he had been created to be.

He could do nothing but comply to her immediate order, leaving Estelle behind, weak and confused, without any explanation. From what he had gathered years after, she had soon been surrounded by demons that had been looking for _him_. She had been forced to try and defend herself, to fight for herself without any proper weapons. He had left her to _die_.

With parts of his memory regained after touching the angel tablet he also got drowned by enormous amounts of guilt and regret—even though he had been physically unable to reject Naomi’s direct wishes all those years ago. And until saving Dean Winchester from perdition, until claiming Jimmy Novak’s body as his vessel he had hoped, almost _prayed_ himself to never need nor use a human like this again. At times Castiel couldn’t help but wonder how it all could have been, should it have been allowed for him to stay with Estelle.

He couldn’t help but think that this woman here— _Clara_ by her name tag—seemed to have a couple of features that remarkably looked like his former vessel. The dark hair, the bright eyes, the fair skin.

In an almost automatic movement he got ahold of the mug placed in front of him, deciding to busy his body with the molecular taste of coffee instead of continuing to worry about his past. Maybe taking apart the internal structure of the scalding beverage would distract his mind long enough for this entire ordeal to pass by.

“Here—“ Apparently his mind decided to cut back in, watching Clara as she ripped off a piece of paper from her notepad, handing it to Dean with a wink of her blue eyes— “Meet me later.”

“Sure will,” Dean replied smoothly, taking a look at what she had written down before folding the paper and placing it in the vaguely dry pocket of his suspiciously lumberjack looking red plaid shirt. He gave it a light pat, smirk gracing his features.

Cass couldn’t help feeling dejected.

It’s not that he wasn’t aware of Dean, his behavior and his interests, not that he hadn’t gotten to know him more than he had ever thought he _would_ get to know a human over the past half decade alone. But being so directly confronted by it—confronted with the knowledge of Dean craving something Cass could not possibly offer—in an environment that had previously felt soothing, relaxing for the angel, appeared to be more than just the usual amount of inadvertence Dean could possibly display. Cass had felt so at ease, eating together with the people he loved the most.

His gaze darted to Sam, taking in his ‘bitch face’—which meant the narrowed eyes with an eyebrow arched up in a silent, unspoken question—and he only vaguely heard the footsteps of the woman fade into the distance as she left.

“ _Dude_ ,” Sam spoke up, hazel eyes squinted in a fashion that rivaled Castiel’s, “Not in front of my salad.”

——————

The rhythmic, vibrating noise of fingers tapping away on the touchscreen of a phone hummed busily through the crisp summer air, yellows and oranges eating away at the blue and turning everything to orange and red, spreading over the sky like a comforting blanket. They had stayed at the diner for a while longer, waiting for their clothes to dry to something less likely to make them catch a cold, as well as waiting for the thick veil of clouds to tear apart, giving way to the last few weakened rays of sunshine for the day.

A chuckle arose from behind the angel and Cass refused to turn around only to catch Dean laughing contently at the thought of another of his hook-ups—Castiel feared he would never truly understand the desire behind them. The closest he got to understanding was back when he had been human for a short time. The time he had spent with the reaper, with _April_ , had rewarded him with some twisted sense of stability, a feeling of home he had not felt in a long time, not while being in a world that seemed strange and foreign, a place where he had felt left behind and looked down upon. Not with being cast out of heaven and feeling abandoned by the Winchesters. Somehow she had managed to ease away his worries, pushed them to a slightly less demanding corner of his head simply through moving her body against his, and Castiel had never been more grateful for spending the night with a stranger.

Yet ever since he had retrieved his grace he was all the more reminded of how much he didn’t feel, how he had _never_ truly felt the need for such actions. He was content where and how he was now, didn’t miss an inch of his former life, and he surely didn’t long to acquiesce to the act for another time, even if it _did_ make him feel more normal, more human; more akin to the only people he had ever truly loved. It was not even her body that made him consider the action acceptable in the first place, rather he consented to it out of simple curiosity and for the kindness she had radiated, leaving her to take the lead, letting her help him forget his worries and fears, his doubts and feeling of worthlessness as he closed his eyes and just _was_.

Ever since he was back to being himself though he had to admit he did not feel the tiniest urge to ever go through the action again. While he was alright with the distraction it had provided, now he longed for nothing of the sort—Once seemed to have been enough to him. It had satisfied the curiosity upon hearing Dean so casually talk about it, but there was no desire blooming within him to continue, nothing that told him just _why_ Dean seemed to value it so much.

Perhaps the initial desire to feel like having a home, to feel at peace was useless now that he was finally back together with his _family_. Now that he had a _home_ in the bunker, now that he knew they _wanted_ him there as much as he wanted to be with them—Because for him the bunker wasn’t home because it was the place where he lived; but because it was where _they_ were.

“—gotta meet her after her shift in ten minutes,” Dean’s voice drew him back from his straying thoughts and Cass’ eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on the smirk gracing his face, “Don’t wait for me. Might get late.”

The grin even echoed through the sound of his voice and the angel stared at the back of the hunter’s head while he rounded the corner, own feet inexplicably rooted to the soil covered ground.

There was only the wisp of air, crisp and sweet. The lingering smell of fast food wafting out of the diner. The sound of birds singing, adorning their surroundings with beautiful melodies. Beautiful things Cass didn’t notice as he was knee-deep in his thoughts spiraling down and into hell.

“So,” Sam chirped despite the clear awkwardness bleeding through his voice, “It’s just the two of us then?”

His faked enthusiasm and optimism were terribly misplaced—Castiel wondered if he knew. No further words were spoken as Sam strolled next to him, walking back to the motel a few roads farther away in uncomfortable silence.

——————

Sam’s snore occupied the room. It echoed along the poorly painted bedroom walls looking almost a muddy see foam green while Cass sat vigilant but still as a statue in a nearby chair, feet placed firmly on the shaggy blue carpet below. The other bed in the room sat empty, lime green bedsheets undisturbed and at times the angel wished he could sleep if only to pass the time.

Sheets rustled as Sam twisted and turned in his apparently restless sleep, a light groan leaving his lips and Cass looked up to see the strain on his face, the furrow of his eyebrows. He seemed to almost glisten with sweat in the weak moonlight filtering through badly veiled windows, through askew turquoise curtains, and Castiel was up in no time, perching next to the bed like a literal guardian angel. Everything Sam had went through in hell was no doubt once more on replay in his head, stuck in a loop like a broken record incapable of getting fixed. No, the angel only knew how to _ease_ his pain, and as such he reached out, fingertips brushing against his friend’s paled and sweaty skin emitting a light yellow while Sam stilled beneath his touch. A shaky exhale left his slightly parted lips and Cass leaned back with a broken sigh.

So much pain, so much torture and he couldn’t even help lift the invisible spell the devil had placed him under following what had no doubt felt like an eternity of torture and possession. Castiel was very well aware of the trauma clinging to one’s psyche after such a procedure and he wished to actually be able to help besides aiding him to rest.

With a barely veiled hesitance in his steps he turned around to let himself sink back down into the chair resting next to a cheap, plastic table. It was difficult, almost impossible for him to not let his eyes stray back to the empty and unused bed, difficult to not think and worry about Dean.

_Dean_ , _Dean_ , _Dean_. A constant in the space occupying his head.

Whenever was there a time he wasn’t worrying about the reckless and impulsive man he had grown so close to? His anger and incapacity to properly deal with his thoughts and emotions had more than once caused a divide between him and the angel, had more than once deeply brought all of them into trouble they were barely able to crawl out of alive.

But even so, he couldn’t help but think about him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, wasn’t sure it would do him any good—No, he was _sure_ it wouldn’t do him any good. Still, every time the man refused to stay, Castiel wondered if something might happen. With so many creatures and demons and even _angels_ on the loose, it would be no surprise if one of them managed to catch him—Especially considering just how many enemies they had accumulated over the years. Everything could be a trap, that _woman_ could have been a trap; if not an angel, than maybe a werewolf or vampire looking for an easy feast. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Dean to be able to defend himself, but mistakes could easily happen. Failure was always a possibility. Cass started shifting in his seat, unease overcoming him as the angel blade felt heavy in his coat sleeve, burning through the fabric with its weight.

Until he noticed that the burning sensation was actually real and originated from his chest. He clamped a hand over his mouth in a haste, fingertips digging into his skin as he quietly made a run for the door leading outside to not wake Sam from his now peaceful slumber. Once the door was closed quietly and he was fairly out of earshot even though the door still safely loomed in his peripheral vision, he let it all out.

His stomach clenched as he hacked, former dry wheezes turning agonizing as if he was coughing up razor blades, every muscle in his body cramping while his legs made him sway in his stand. It burned, it actually _burned_ and he clutched onto the fabric covering his chest in a fearful moment to feel anchored to something real. He was an _angel_ , this shouldn’t be happening. Angels couldn’t get _sick_ , he told Dean and Sam over and over—now here he was, standing in the parking lot, hand leaning against the Impala as he doubled over in pain.

With wide eyes he noticed that his mouth was filled with liquid, flashing hotand tasting like iron as it brushed against his tongue, and in a lightly disgusted motion he spit it out and onto the still damp soil covering the ground. It dropped down from his mouth, slowly, steadily. And when he bent down to inspect it, lungs and throat still aching from the pain, he saw the crimson littering the floor.

_Blood_.

There was actual _blood_ on the floor from where he had coughed against it in a desperate attempt to keep the sting at bay. Granted, it wasn’t _that_ much—they had seen their fair shade of it after all. Only a little bit of crimson smeared against the mud, covering the green of nearby weeds a dark red.

Still, it was _blood_. He was an _angel_ , he had his _grace_.

He shouldn’t be affected by any human diseases, and even a witch’s curse shouldn’t necessarily do him much damage; at least not over the course of such a long time. After a week, his angelic grace should have long since taken care of whatever it was he had been inflicted with; yet by now three of them had already passed and it seemed to only be getting worse. It appeared this witch wasn’t much up for playing by the rules set into stone by God himself.

With a wipe of the back of his hands against his mouth he walked his way back into the motel, past Sam who thankfully was still fast asleep, letting his form slump back into the well used seat from before.

This was just a minor, temporary setback, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of headcanon Cass as on the asexual spectrum—might be on me though.
> 
> (WE ARE FIERCLY IGNORING ENDVERSE FOR THIS (and April) after all Michael isn’t = ApocalypseVerse Michael and sexuality is fluid and bYE)
> 
> Hope I brought everything across correctly, I’ve been rewriting that part for _days! _And I don’t often try to explain my sexuality-headcanons in writing!  
>  Also—He’s an angel? Kinda without any sexual parts in his true form? Technically they shouldn’t even feel such desire because it’s not even in their biology and there’s no need to reproduce and I’ll stop now—__
> 
> __(To each their own headcanon though! You do you!)_ _


	3. Petals Drenched In Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass compares the Winchesters to weeds and Dean and Sam find out about Cass’ condition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware of coughing up blood and a petal! Hanahaki things that is!

It wasn’t until much later that Dean finally entered the motel room. Late enough, in fact, for it to be a more than reasonable time for Sam to rise from his sleep. Cass, still sitting with his feet planted firmly on the floor and his head in his hands from the amounts of time spent waiting actually startled when the door suddenly got pushed open and lightly hit the wall with surprising vigor, Dean brushing past and closing the shabby wooden door with his elbow.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean called as his eyes darted to his brother stirring on his bed with his hands moving sluggishly to wipe the remnants of sleep from his eyes. The smell of intoxication wafted into the room as Dean stumbled past and into the bathroom, reeking of alcohol and the nights out in other people’s beds.

“Seems like someone had a great night,” Sam mumbled without much enthusiasm, albeit loud enough for Dean to hear and thus, for Cass, too. As if suddenly aware of his surroundings hazel eyes moved to glance at the angel, seeming almost apologetic and pitying. A look Castiel couldn’t quite place as his head turned to listen to the shower being turned on and water rushing through the pipes. They creaked ominously upon being used, not having been renewed since the dawn of time, Cass assumed.

“Try _awesome_!”

The reply came as a yell over the water flowing down and into the shower tub, steam coming out from under the cheap and broken door that had made dangerous noises when Dean had opened and closed it in a haste. For a while Castiel tuned out completely, still faintly hearing the sound of water dripping down and Sam stumbling around to get dressed, trying not to trip over their things lying strewn across the whole carpet.

Looking back at Sam, Cass was relieved to take in his much more relaxed and well rested appearance. The dark bags under his eyes have brightened incredibly, his posture much more upright as he sat down on his bed and his hair almost looked healthier than the day before, shinier as it loosely framed his face.

“Did you sleep well?” Castiel asked, if only to distract himself.

“I did!” Sam’s reply seemed happy and lively, as if the sun shone brightly for him and only for him and Cass couldn’t help but absorb some of the happiness he was radiating, “Surprisingly well and—“ he glanced at the clock on the nightstand, taking it in his hands and gazing at the red, digital numbers as if they were holding the answer to the universe— “ _Much_ longer than I thought.”

“Twelve hours hardly seems too long,” Castiel replied, voice matter-of-factly as he reminisced what he had read about a while ago on the Internet, “In fact, I heard that some people even sleep for days.”

Seemed like Cass had actually managed to help Sam at least a bit, after all. A faint smile began to tug at his lips at the thought; not enough so to be seen by people that didn’t know him very well, but a token of his appreciation nonetheless.

Sam gave a slim chuckle at that, addressing his earlier revelation.

“But that’s not exactly normal.”

In that moment the bathroom doors pounded open and out swayed Dean—clean shaved and showered, not smelling like alcohol and despair anymore for which everyone assembled was more than glad—hot steam accompanying him as he sprawled down in the chair across from Cass.

“Sunshine slept for _twelve_ hours?” His face spelled incredulity as he propped his arms up on the table, body leaning forward as he stared at Cass with a light tilt of his head and intense green eyes. Dean’s mouth opened in wide laughter once he gave the fact more thought and the angel couldn’t help but stare at him in wonder, relishing his open joy even if only due to him being highly intoxicated. The burning itch in Cass’ throat that had left him alone for a while but now suddenly and fiercely reappeared continued getting ignored.

“Maybe I should start callin’ you Sleepin’ Beauty ‘stead.”

Sam gave a grin, rolling his eyes. “You already _do_ sometimes.”

For a second Dean’s gaze moved to Sam, giving him an incredulous glare. But then his eyes were back on Cass, mouth still curled upwards in a smirk as he propped his chin onto his hand to steady himself. Everything seemed to still while the angel held his gaze. A long moment in which Castiel didn’t dare breathe or move, while Dean’s eyes darted around his face as if searching for something, stare burning and intense and—

“Excuse me.”

Cass fled the motel room, walking a bit farther this time to cough up heaps of searing blood.

—————

Walking through the park was exactly what Castiel felt he needed.

The buzzing of bees as he passed by a couple of sweetly smelling flowers, the sun shining warmly down on his skin as if a simple caress and the green of flora surrounding him, emerging him in god’s creation. A content sigh eased through his nose, feet kicking at the gravel as he shuffled on the beaten path littered with little stones, sand and the occasional weeds.

Now, _weeds_ were fascinating little things. Capable of thriving under the harshest of conditions, continuing to fight for their right of existence even when people and animals alike picked on them, scraped them out of their little corners, the little homes they had created for themselves to reside within. Despite everything they kept on, never giving up, always coming back; much like the _Winchesters_.

No matter which foes, which adversaries they had faced—from mere werewolves to demons and angels to God’s sister herself—they never gave up, always willing to go down with a fight. Castiel couldn’t help but admire them.

In a way he was glad to have taken the walk for himself while Sam and Dean were torn between wanting to accompany him and not feeling up to pretending to be as much in tune with nature as Cass undoubtedly was. He knew that, _obviously_ , which is why he insisted in needing some fresh air for himself in the first place, even though he would have loved their company more than anything else. Still, the time he spent surrounded by the chirping of birds and the freshness of the crisp air and the buzzing of bees made him feel much, much better. The worry usually and constantly coursing through him at Dean’s often rash decisions was lessened while he knew Sam was around him, hopefully being able to punch some sense into his brother if necessary.

Pulling out his phone to check the time he glanced at the blue tinted screen with narrowed eyes. Dean had wanted to order take out food in about half an hour and Cass wanted to be back in time; if only to accompany them. Without wings to fly with, time management was still something up for a challenge—places he had once been able to reach in the blink of an eye could now take anywhere from seconds to hours to days for him to arrive to. Spending a minute to wallow in the loss of his wings and the practicability that had come with them, along with the feeling of pride every angel held regarding their appearance if not mere existence, he turned back around, shortly marveling at the sun as it started to dip below the horizon before making his way steadily back towards the motel.

——————

Even though he didn’t eat nor felt the need to, he still appreciated the warm smell of cheese melted on pizza, completed with toppings to spice things up. Sitting at the table across from Dean he could only watch the brothers as they indulged in their food; Dean digging into his certainly unhealthy amount of greasy pizza and Sam calmly eating another salad, speckled with cheese and vegetables and fruits alike.

“Again?” Dean had asked, not bothering to hide his grin as he talked with his mouth still filled to the brim, “You’ve not turned into a rabbit, have you?”

The glare he had received as an answer only added fuel to the fire that was Dean’s apparently great mood. He gave a laugh, patting his brother on the back and this time Cass couldn’t stop the violent cough from crawling out of his throat. Immediately all eyes fell on him, everyone falling silent.

He had hid it extraordinarily well ever since being hit with the spell in the first place, trying to ignore the oddness of his grace not being able to counteract and heal whatever he had been inflicted with. All this time he had not wanted to believe the source of his condition to most likely be the curse he had been ambushed with out of that odd, yellow book with the unknown rune. Yet by now it just seemed to have accumulated in its intensity and he couldn’t deny it any longer, holding up a hand in front of his mouth and rising from his comfortable position against the cushions to excuse himself to the bathroom.

“Cass!” Dean called after him, worry dripping from his words clear as day while Sam’s cutlery clattered onto the table in shock, “ _Wait_!”

At that the pain only grew sharper.

Slamming the door close with perhaps a little too much force, Castiel leaned over the sink being unable to to do anything but continue to cough, watching crimson dripping down his chin and onto the ceramic in a steady stream of hot red. His eyes fell to the cracks littering the white material like darkened spider webs crawling upwards from the drain, feeling like ivy crawling up buildings and slowly eating away at the structure, leaving them to start breaking apart without anyone truly noticing what was transpiring between the layers of timeworn concrete.

This made him wonder if that was what was happening to him. He hadn’t given the curse enough thought and now here he was, almost a month later and his condition had only worsened. Who knew what was going on within his body at this very moment.

A fist pounded against the door.

“Cass?”

_Dean_.

“Cass? You alright?”

He snatched ahold of one of the towels, ripping it off its hook causing said thing to fall off the wall and tumble to the floor, sliding beneath the cupboard. Hastily he wiped his hand and mouth against the fabric in an unfocused, hurried movement, staining the light blue a dark red.

“Uh, yes,” he answered, fighting the cough but not managing to completely suppress it, leaving him to instead choke out his words, “I’m fine.”

The door pushed open despite any privacy Dean once had insisted was adequate—especially for _lavatories_ —and Cass had no time to even try and hide the bloodied towel, nor flush the heaps of blood splattering and coloring the sink in red down the drain.

Gaze resting solely on Cass, Dean spoke up, “You’re not.”

As if on cue another harsh cough ripped through the angel and Dean passed fully into the room, swiftly accessing Cass, piercing him with his gaze in search of any way to help.

“Buddy, you need to _tell_ us if something’s wrong,” his hands wandered to tightly grip onto Cass’ shoulders, near the base of his neck. Cass felt the heat radiating from the man’s palms as they touched the skin next to the collar of his dress shirt, felt the tips of his fingers tighten their hold on him in a subtle but distraught gesture, “Is it the witch? Is it a _curse_?”

There was so much worry bleeding through Dean’s voice, through his eyes, sorrow shining and almost tainting his soul—it hurt Cass to see, own hands moving to grasp Dean’s wrists as if locking them in place, wanting to keep them to ground himself with their warmth while the towel fell to the floor, forgotten. His lips pressed into a firm line as he clenched his teeth, clenched his jaw, straining to keep the blood in his throat and his mouth as it crawled upwards in a frantic attempt to be released.

Castiel couldn’t keep Dean’s eyes from finally falling onto the sink, onto the towel that had fallen to the tiled ground in a desperate attempt to clutch Dean, and the way his eyes shone with horror was even worse than the blooming agony roaring like a fire in Cass’ chest.

“I believe you‘re right,” he decided, averting Dean’s intense searching gaze by looking at the towel resting bundled up on the floor, averting his gaze as it once more returned to his face, “I might have gotten cursed.”

——————

Steps were heard pacing around the hallways of the bunker, growing faint before returning, the man resting only shortly on one spot until leaving again along the path he came from—walking in a loop back and forth as if one of the restless ghosts they were often hunting. Parchment rustled on the tables placed in the library, keys clicked in a reverent search through the Internet often accompanied by light, withheld coughs and struggles to breathe as everyone assembled fought to find a solution, a _cure_.

“Yes Rowena,” a voice echoed along the walls, past Dean and Cass slouching in the library and thumbing through eons worth of books as well as years worth of articles roaming the deepest and darkest corners of the World Wide Web, “No— _No_ , we don’t know any more than that.”

Steps continued to echo, barely managing to distract Cass from the pain.

“Yes, he is coughing up blood, no—yes I _know_ this is pretty vague, _listen_ —“

Silence. Only weakened breaths filling the air.

“But he’s an _angel_! He shouldn’t be suffering from—Yes, alright, we’ll keep you updated. Thanks.”

The call ended with a click and a sigh, feet shuffling as Sam moved over to the next available chair, sinking deeply into the cushions. If one hadn’t known him, they could have easily thought he had given up judging by his posture, the expression of devastation glinting in his eyes. But they knew him and he was far, _far_ from giving up, if such a thing were even possible.

Castiel didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to see the concerned faces of the brothers, didn’t want to feel how they blamed themselves for not yet having found a cure to heal something not even an Angel of the Lord had ever heard of before, neither a witch that had an incredible knowledge regarding the occult, spells and enchantments.

“So?” he heard Dean speak up, “Rowena got any news for us?”

“Yeah, no,” he tried, conversation replaying in his mind, “So far there’s nothing new about the rune—she thinks its origin is Japan, but other than that—“ He made a vague gesture with his hand— “Nothing so far.”

“...Doesn’t sound like she knows how _serious_ this is,” Dean scoffed, placing his arms on the table and leaning forward, eyes locking on Cass and not straying from their intense focus. All this pity everyone seemed to be wallowing in, directing at him—it was practically burning him, as if sunbeams acutely filtered through a magnifier pointing directly at the top of his head—all the sudden attention appeared to be seconds away from swallowing Castiel whole. It made him feel weak, much weaker in fact than when he had been human, wandering Earth feeling left alone and in constant danger without any means of self-defense after heaven’s lock-down.

“Sam, Dean,” Cass spoke up, slowly raising his head to meet them, face ever so set in place as it usually was in an attempt to not heighten their worry, “I appreciate your efforts in helping me, but I’d much rather you continue on as if nothing had happened.”

“Cass—“

“ _Dean_ ,” he interrupted the man’s attempts at explaining himself before all of it could turn even more into a pity party, “Rowena told us that she is looking further into it and we have no further leads. There have been no symptoms other than the blood and I am still very much alive.”

He watched Dean’s eyes narrow, eyebrows furrowing, shoulders tensing while Castiel continued to speak.

“I have lived since the creation of time and a mere witch’s spell will certainly not bring me down. Please let my condition not keep you from living your life as you should.”

Dean and even Sam, who more often than not saw reason and kept quiet when he knew the person in question didn’t wish to talk, made attempts to continue to object. Still, Cass outright refused them, shutting down every further of their combined efforts in contemplating their next possible measures.

——————

Never mind what he had said, never mind how he had wanted to convince the Winchesters and _himself_ that he was fine; apparently the world did not want him to stick to his words.

As soon as the Winchesters had gone to bed—hours after his initial speech—the last cough he had strained to hold back finally broke loose. It felt worse than before, his lungs almost restricting, throat feeling dried up while at the same time he could practically feel a droplet of blood sliding down causing him to strengthen his attempts at coughing. For a moment he decided to completely hold his breath, simply trying not to inhale any further. A scratching sensation, violent as if sandpaper against his chest and rubbing against his already raw throat made him hack even more violently, causing him to writhe in his chair as he doubled over to eject whatever appeared to be crawling up his throat from within his body.

Was it going to be part of a _lung_? Oh, he had read about a human coughing up a part of their lung once and it did _not_ seem to be a funny business. But as he opened his hand, what resided within—while indeed red, _crimson_ , like blood—was no blood.

It was a petal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you don’t feel like writing ‘Internet’ again and go for ‘World Wide Web’ instead—
> 
> Oh and is it obvious by now that I pretty much have _no _experience in writing dialogue?? I tend to focus on thoughts more than anything else so this right here is new territory...!__
> 
> __(By the way, I unironically love weeds—dandelions are my favorite ‘flower’)_ _
> 
> __I do indeed remember reading about someone coughing up a part of their lung and nothing has scarred me more than that knowledge.  
>  And now you have to live with it too, goodbYE—_ _


	4. Assisting In A Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cass have an argument that leads to Cass leaving the bunker, and while Sam gives Rowena a call, Dean leaves to get drunk which ends in a Hook-Up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware the drinks if that’s not your shot of whi—cup of tea  
> And the Angst, you know the drill!

The petals had managed to accumulate. An entire flower batch seemed to be very well hidden in his coat pockets from whenever he quietly slipped them inside after another violent cough that left the Winchesters speechless and there seemed to be no signs of stopping any time soon. Breathing had become more of a chore than it had ever been before and Rowena still hadn’t been able to narrow down what could possibly be wrong with the angel.

“Angels are not often public about what they are, no?”

Sam had turned on the speaker on his phone, allowing them all to listen to Rowena’s underwhelming answer to her research.

“And it is _also_ not exactly rare that people claim to have been touched by god—or even turned into angels,” her Scottish accent hung heavy on each syllable as she spoke while Castiel attempted to come up with further ideas, “In short—there are simply no reliable sources!”

It’s not that Cass could contact the angels in any way; Sam and Dean had asked him to do so very early on. Even though they all knew they would most likely refuse to answer, maybe even use the knowledge against him or simply enjoy knowing his death seemed inevitable—which is _exactly_ why Castiel refused to call to them for help.

After talking together with Rowena about any theories that led said witch to believing the book to have been rare enough for only selected individuals to know about, Castiel was sitting in the library within the bunker once more. His head was buried in a book about the traditions of asian witches, deciding to follow the only lead the witch had come up with so far. The differences in their work were subtle but apparent; different ingredients, different conditions to be met for a spell to work—in one case for instance, the ritual must be completed during sunrise instead of new moon—and more. Yet his search showed no further results, the petals slowly burning holes through his coat with the weight of their uncertainties, the weight of the knowledge that he _still_ hadn’t told either of them about how his condition had changed in the past couple of days.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice echoed through the room as he entered, mug of coffee in his hand to ready himself for another long night of research—an action he often dumped on Sam, for he hated nothing more than to sit still and drown himself in words. No, he’d much rather be up and punch something, especially if it would help Cass.

“How’re you feeling?”

He let himself sink into the chair right next to Cass, leaning back into the cushions and lazily opening up the laptop to search the Internet as if they hadn’t been doing nothing but exactly that for what felt like the past eternity.

“I’m fine—“ he meant to say, but out came almost garbled nonsense as he choked on yet another petal, no doubt. In a haste he rose from his seat, determined to get away from Dean to not allow him to see what was going to crawl out of his throat. He had no explanation for what was happening and that made him feel terribly uneasy and in addition to that he had no idea how to even go about explaining to Dean that he was coughing up parts of a flower. Sadly he didn’t even manage to take more than one step away before Dean’s hand shot out, gripping the sleeve of his trench coat and locking him in place.

“Cass—“ His voice was urgent as he rose with him, other hand moving to grab his shoulder, “Cass talk to me, what’s wrong?”

The angel only continued to hack, bending over in a desperate attempt to claw at his chest, to try and regain his breathing. At times it seemed to feel so much more difficult with Dean around, throat closing up an immediate reaction to his touch—But he couldn’t even talk, lest fight his way out of Dean’s surprisingly strong grip, who was more than determined to not let him slip away this time around.

“We’ll go through this _together_ Cass, stay with me.”

His hand pounded against Castiel’s back trying to help him cough, and the angel shakily placed his hand in front of his mouth to catch what was no doubt going to get spit out in a moment’s notice. Another cough and there it was; faint taste of sweet flowers mixed with the unmistakable bite of iron against his tongue and with trembling hands he reached inside his mouth, grabbing ahold of the petal and locking it in his fist, hoping for Dean to not have noticed that anything was amiss.

But of course he had, Cass assumed one must have been blind to not see that, and he was acutely aware of Dean’s ability to see. The burning in his throat momentarily subsided but his chest welled in light concern as green eyes focused only on the hand hovering between the both of them, fiercely clamped together to a fist.

“No, _Dean_ —“

In a quick motion Dean’s hand moved to Cass’ wrist, keeping him from pulling away while the other started prying his hand open with barely any force since Castiel was still momentarily weakened by the inexplicable sickness inflicted on him by a curse. Dean didn’t mind the blood nor remnants of saliva at all, having seen and touched much, much worse over the course of his life as a hunter. Quickly switching to hold Cass’ hand with both of his, he took the bloodied petal from his palm in a slow movement—so slow in fact, he almost seemed frozen, eyes remaining solely focused on the red, flowery petal pinched between his fingers.

“ _Cass_ ,” he spoke, voice ice cold, piercing Castiel with the lack of warmth residing in his words as he addressed the angel, all breathing in the room seemingly reduced to a minimum, “How long?”

There was no point in hiding it any longer, no point in trying to find excuses or attempting to even lie and say that this time was the first, or that everything was alright and he was fine—

“One week.”

Dean did a double take.

“One _week_? Cass and—and you weren’t _telling_ us?”

There was an accusation in his voice mixed with terror and sadness and the familiar underlying tone of scars crafted over years of betrayal that hadn’t yet been completely forgiven. Words he meant to speak got lost on his blood coated tongue as he caught Dean’s eyes, worried and adorned with anger, fury; at the situation, at Cass for not telling him, at not knowing how to help nor knowing how much worse it could possibly get. At the uncertainty of where this rollercoaster of a curse might lead and how long they had left to figure out to where it was headed, or how to escape before it crashed and burned.

As if having a hunch, a sudden idea sparking in his head bright like oil being lit up with a burning match immediately surging up to a roaring fire Dean let the petal fall back into Cass’ tainted grasp. His hand moved fast as lightning, unceremoniously holding onto his trench coat, pulling on it, sticking his hand into the pocket hidden on the inside of the fabric.

“ _Dean_ —“ he breathed in a broken, pleading warning, relishing the man’s touch but more than just fearing the consequences of what he will find. Dean’s face was so close to his, breath ghosting across his skin and Castiel couldn’t help looking up, watching Dean’s face scrunch in concentration, in frustration, eyebrows furrowing and green eyes narrowing until he found it, found _them_ , eyes widening significantly in sudden realization. With a swift movement he pulled out heaps and pounds of crimson petals.

They almost glowed in his hands, blood pooling around some even though most of it had long since dried and Castiel only closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in anticipation.

“No, Cass,” Dean spoke, more in quiet fury than anything else even though Castiel could feel the anger growing steadily within him like a volcano waiting to erupt, “ _This_ —“ His hand clamped shut with the petals in hand, some falling to the floor following his quick action— “ _This_ is something you should’ve told us!”

The atmosphere in the room started to change almost drastically as the man bristled, air getting thick enough for Castiel to feel as if he was getting smothered by a blanket, less and less oxygen managing to enter his throat with every inhale as he struggled even more to breathe. Dean shoved the petals into his own pocket, red and dried brown stains barely noticeable on his red and black plaid shirt as he smeared his hand against it in an almost disgusted fashion, dirtying his clothes with the blood of a fallen angel.

“I can’t believe you _didn’t_ _tell_ us!”

His hands were back on Cass’ shoulders, starting to almost painfully dig into the skin under his layers and layers of clothes—Castiel felt himself bristle as well immediately after registering his words.

“Why _should_ I?” he spoke, much more harshly than he had intended, but the scratch in his throat had only made him sound worse, “We both know that I am _useless_ to you without my abilities—You have only ever needed me when I was at full capacity, you have only ever needed me for my _grace_.”

He had honestly thought that he had gotten over their past mistakes, he really had. But now that Dean was looking at him with his eyes filled with fury and disappointment alike, looking at him as if they were back with Bobby and Sam in that house, back when he had worked with Crowley and had betrayed the people he loved the most in a desperate attempt to _save_ them.

Dean was looking at him like he had back all these years ago, when he had lost all the trust tentatively crafted purely for Cass in the blink of an eye. Trust he still hadn’t regained after everything he had done to try and redeem himself—and now he realized that he would probably never gain any sliver of trust from Dean ever again, realized that it all had been a mere facade to keep intact what he had believed they had.

Cass felt infected by Dean’s uncontrolled rage.

“I did not want to appear useless again, only for you to have another reason to throw me out. But now that you know, I will take my leave before it even comes to that.”

That stung. Even in Castiel’s own ears.

But Dean said nothing, as always. He had grown quiet, still clutching onto Cass’ shoulders with the same amount of force as if frozen in place, but his eyes had grown more panicked—something Cass didn’t notice, trapped in his own little world of pain and fury. He waited for Dean to speak, for him to say something, _anything_ that showed that he _did_ care, that Castiel wasn’t as _useless_ as he felt.

But Dean said nothing, still standing immovable with a stare that pointed blankly right through the angel. With a sharp breath that got stuck in his throat and a quick push against Dean’s chest, Cass stormed off and out of the bunker, leaving a stunned and still processing Dean behind.

——————

If there was one thing Dean wasn’t good at, it was emotions.

There were certainly more things than just that, but it was one of his biggest flaws—and in a few, clear and especially _sober_ moments, he could be very well aware of how much it made him push away everyone around him. It was a goddamn _miracle_ how Sam still stuck around, how he always stayed calm even when faced with his brother’s inexplicable rage building up as sudden as a storm on sea, attempting to drown everyone nearby under its currents.

But Sam was like a rock that had been stuck since the beginning of time—unyielding and almost terribly patient, always trying to calm Dean’s anger and reconciling the different parties of his brother’s next gigantic dispute. A neutral force that appealed to both sides to weld them back together, something he had done for years and will continue on for as long as he felt he needed to.

So when he entered the library, finding Dean slumped in the seat with an already half-empty bottle of beer in his hand and a mountain of crimson red petals splayed on the table, he had an immediate inkling of what had happened and what he had to do.

His brother beat him to it.

“I should head out,” Dean spoke before Sam even had a chance to, rising in his seat, “Go to a bar or somethin’...Get my mind off this—“ he gesticulated wildly around the room, pointing at everything and nothing at the same time— “Whole thing.”

Sam was contemplating to actually punch him for his idiotic train of thoughts, but seeing how the bottle in his hand shook silently in an overflow of withheld emotions he settled for a glare that put his wanted but untaken actions into unspoken words.

“ _First_ ,” Sam gestured around the library, wanting to focus on the person that was clearly missing in the room, “Mind telling me what happened?”

A beat passed before Dean slumped back down into the seat as if in defeat, dragging out a sigh while he wiped his forehead with his hand. With a motion of a shrug making the liquid in the bottle move around in a swirl, he took a suspiciously long swig before setting it down, brushing the back of his hand against his mouth to wipe away leftover traces of alcohol spilt on his chin before resting his gaze on his little brother. Without breaking eye contact he gestured at the petals littering the table, taking in Sam’s confused expression with scary intensity.

“ _This_.”

Cue a drawn up eyebrow.

“Cass’s been coughing up petals.”

Sam wanted to ask whether he was sure even as his own face was clearly still reacting to the unforeseen news—Sam’s eyes wide as saucers and mouth starting to gape—but he knew that Dean would never lie in such a serious situation. Steps quick and hurried he went over, inspecting the crimson dotting the already red petals, eyes trailing the smear of blood on the library table right next to a stack of books about rare curses and their cures. Another symptom—as good as it was bad, for he immediately swiped out his phone, typing in Rowena’s contact information and waiting for the call to push through.

The line gave a crackle as someone picked up.

“Rowena? We have another lead.”

——————

With Sam being distracted talking to Rowena about possible causes and the possible course of the incredibly and surprisingly strong curse, Dean found that he could not will himself to listen for even just a second longer. Pushing himself out of the chair with a little sway in his step from the beginning of intoxication, he stepped up the stairs and out of the bunker, practically falling into the next bar ordering a bottle of whisky.

His eyes darted around, halfway out of focus as his mind still clung to images of Cass, clung to how he had been in his grasp, violently coughing up an entire petal sprinkled with blood; not to speak about the entire pile of them he had hidden away in his pocket. He tried his best to repress these thoughts, taking another deep swig of the liquid resting inside the glass standing in front of him on the counter. Soon it was empty, and he found himself ordering another one to fill the emptiness in his stomach.

“ _Another_?” a voice piped up next to him, slight slur vaguely telling Dean the owner was drunk, if not at least tipsy as well, “If I counted right that was your—what, _fifth_?”

“Mind your own business,” Dean countered back in a grumble not feeling much up for questions, picking up the glass and drinking half of it in another gulp, mind zeroing in on the sensation of the liquid feeling like white flashes as it went down his throat, enabling him to let the memories holding him in their suffocating grasp slowly fade for the moment. Laughter echoed at his response and he turned to look.

He remembered her, vaguely. Clara was her name? Her dark hair still neatly framed her face in soft, but messier curls, blue eyes piercing him with their intense stare as if, even while intoxicated, reading him like a book. She had her arm propped up on the bar, chin placed in her hands. A glass filled with brown liquid rested in her other hand, slowly getting swirled in a motion that screamed of having nothing better to do.

“Oh,” he relented, “It’s you.”

“Yep,” she replied, not having taken any offense in his earlier outburst and lifting the glass to her mouth, drinking the rest of it before placing it back on the counter and calling for a refill, “But I shouldn’t judge, I’m on my third.”

A new one was placed in front of her and she took another sip.

“ _Fourth_ ,” she corrected.

Dean gave a weak drin, moving the glass to his lips himself to appear busy as he studied her. With a smirk of her own she caught him looking, tilting her head to fully regard him. Forgetting himself he spent the next couple of hours with her sitting at the bar, drinking, pushing his doubts and fears and everything relentlessly roaming around his head away into the far crevices of his mind, deciding to deal with them whenever he was sober.

Sober Dean was going to have a _hell_ of a lot of problems to deal with—but that didn’t concern Drunk Dean in the slightest.

“You know, we could always give it a round two,” she spoke up with a smirk long after they had both lost count of their drinks, alcohol no doubt having upped her confidence even further. Her cheeks glowed brightly in the dim light, whether due to the drinks alone or to her own cheeky remark, Dean wasn’t sure. Still, he found himself contemplating her offer.

In the end he accepted.

It was nice to him while it lasted, yet once it was over—once sleep had claimed him and he woke to sunshine filtering through windows that had been left unveiled in the heat of the moment—he felt all the thoughts he had repressed bubbling up to the surface. Reminisced the way Cass had gotten furious after Dean’s own display of anger; remembered how his own chest ached when he saw the angel writhing to get out of his grasp, wanting to clearly hide his condition from him. Cass’ face was burned on the inside of his eyelids even as he closed them; the face of utter betrayal. One he felt he had already been wearing for quite some time himself, one he had never wanted to see grace Cass’ face again, yet he was the one responsible for it.

A hand brushing against his stomach ripped him out of his thoughts.

“Hey,” a soft voice called, “You seem troubled.”

The light shone into the bedroom that did not appear as unfamiliar as bedrooms usually appear to Dean, with its blue and white walls, dark, billowing curtains in the slight breeze creeping through opened windows—same with the voice that spoke up from beside him. He didn’t answer her remark, only continued to stare straight at the ceiling looming white and high above him.

“You don’t need to talk about it,” the voice, _Clara_ , continued, “But I know that look in your eyes.” She talked so softly to him, so compassionate. As if she was indeed capable of seeing right through him, taking apart every little feeling he himself didn’t understand and fiercely locked away on the inside to never deal with. He felt much more naked than he should, awfully laid bare under her analytical gaze and he fought the need to squirm.

A beat passed.

“You don’t really want to be here.”

Dean closed his eyes, wanting to ask whether she was joking, because he surely—even if in a blurry haze—remembered the fun they both had. But in the end he merely felt unsure whether he should just flee the room and never look back or stay and listen to what she had to say. He still felt drowsy, alcohol weighing heavily on him, body demanding more sleep to properly digest and filter the toxins residing within him after a night spent without any rational thoughts, and so he merely gave a sigh and listened to her speak.

“I already noticed it when I first met you,” Clara continued. Dean felt the bed shift as she probably found a more comfortable position to rest in. The hand resting on his stomach was gone and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“You enjoyed our time, _clearly_ , but there was something else within you that called for your attention—“ she stopped to take a breath— “I’m not sure you know what it is.”

Now he did speak, mostly to focus on something else besides him, besides repressed emotions he did _not_ want to deal with, “What?—are you some kind of free-time _therapist_?”

He had meant it as a joke but was stunned into silence by her honest reply.

“I’m studying psychology. I work in the diner to pay my bills and, well—“ a breathless, mirthless laugh came from beside him, something hollow with no spark of joy or humor— “It’s not always easy. I drink to forget.”

“Me too,” he spoke without thinking, immediately wishing to not have opened his mouth in the first place. _Dammit_ , he wasn’t here for a goddamn therapy session, yet somehow she got him to talk without truly trying to. There was something about her gaze, about the room, about _everything_ that seemed to let him relax more than he wanted to allow himself to.

She didn’t reply to his blurted out answer, drinking in his response while he drowned in the revelation of something he hadn’t quite realized himself.

“You don’t need to find words to describe who you are,” she picked up once more, voice so sincere that he felt the meaning within his heart. Dean had a feeling she knew where she was going with this, but also knew that he didn’t.

“It’s only important that you accept it.”

The words resonated deeply with something that had long since resided within him, even though he was still unable to grasp what it was. All he knew was that he was glad he had followed her lead, glad he had let her talk. Glad he had been able to hear her speak, to have heard this phrase alone—something he wished he could have heard from his father, all these years back.

But in the end, simple words couldn’t hurt him, _right_?

Though they _did_ hurt someone else, fiercely.

“I’m not up for a relationship,” the words left Dean’s mouth without much emotion behind them as his mind was occupied somewhere far, _far_ away.

She gave a laugh, an actual, _honest_ laugh this time that made the bed give a creak with its intensity and made a smile of his own grace Dean’s face.

“Don’t worry—You’re not quite my type either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hook-Up we don’t talk about! I kind of felt it was a Dean thing to do; and someone needs to punch some sense into this man. Yay for characters to forward the plot?
> 
> This one’s for all us idiots who have no idea who they love! Sexuality is a confusing thing, that’s for sure—Just remember to accept yourself the way you are!
> 
> And we’re back in time for ‘Dean doesn’t know how to use words nor how to deal with having emotions’! Stay tuned!
> 
> Note the POV changes! There will be more! :O


	5. Little Witch Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean returns, finds Cass unconscious in the forest with Sam and they make plans on how to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware blood and lots of guilt??

The weather was nice enough for a little stroll as Dean made his way back to the bunker in the early morning, having stormed off to the bar in a rush and by feet knowing that he would get drunk too much out of his head to properly drive. He certainly didn’t want to wreck Baby, not so soon again.

Clara’s words were still on repeat somewhere inside of his brain even as the alcoholic toxins started to subside due to his high tolerance. Unfortunately the lack of proper intoxication also caused memories of his argument with Cass to start pushing through again. Once more Dean had messed up, terribly so. The look of utter betrayal on the angel’s face had haunted him ever since and he wasn’t sure what to do in order to set things right. For a moment he thought about praying to him, but then again—he didn’t want to be a coward, hiding out of Cass’ reach as he pulled an apology out of nowhere, said things his best friend couldn’t even reply to through this one-way telephone of his; _not_ if he could very well just find him and say it to his face instead. _Best friend_ —were they still friends? What if Cass didn’t want to forgive him for how he had treated him?

Dean shook his head, picking up his pace instead despite the light sway in his steps. Having been forced to think of things _did_ somehow get him better in tune with his emotions, and the calm morning breeze helped in vaguely sobering him up further in preparation for a talk long since overdue. Clara and him had parted ways with a little smile; a soft, sweet smile as well as a couple aspirin against the raging headache building up inside his skull and pressing on his eyes even while he merely breathed—it had been a parting awfully unusual for Dean and his hook-ups, which tended to end much more often than he liked to admit with a lack of recollection the next morning and the following harsh slap across the face.

A bee buzzed past him making soft noises and he couldn’t help but think of Cass again, how his blue eyes would follow the trail the little insect took with curiosity and interest all the while spitting out random facts he had picked up watching documentaries or reading articles or sorting through books in the library. Filled with knowledge as it was, the bunker really was a perfect spot for Sam and Cass, who were no doubt the family nerds—Dean _totally_ didn’t belong to said group in secret, nope—and he was grateful to be able to call it a home.

Though, was it for Cass? Ever since bringing him there he rarely ever stayed for much longer than a week despite being unable to fly and having to walk or drive everywhere. Dean wanted Cass to see the bunker as his home. He was _family_ after all. The thoughts ate away at Dean as the bunker finally popped into view looming high and safe across the street as it was surrounded by trees blooming in the brightest, most vivid greens. He had to make sure Cass _knew_ ; he only hoped he had returned back to the bunker by now—in these situations Cass could be incredibly stubborn, refusing to return for weeks on end and Dean could only hope this time to be different, if only at Sam’s plea who had most likely tried to call him as soon as he had finished talking to Rowena regarding their newest discovery.

Just as Dean wanted to open the door to the bunker, words tumbling restlessly around in his head somewhere containing an apology to Cass in its midst, Sam pushed outside, shoulder slamming against him before he even noticed his brother’s presence enough to properly react to it.

“Cass,” Sam breathed in a hurry, hands on his knees, “He’s still not back—I tried to call him, multiple times, he didn’t pick up. I tracked his phone, it didn’t move in a while—“

“Then let’s go.”

Dean’s voice was firm as he interrupted his brother’s ramblings, immediately making his way to the garage with hurried steps, Sam a constant presence right beside him. Oh yes, he had _failed_ again, it had all been Dean’s fault once again. His temper often got in the way of his feelings, suppressing every kind of weakness he felt was about to push through to the surface, smothering every insecurity, every sliver of anything but anger and wrath, or light smiles and laughter to ease the mood, before it could do as much as spark a warming fire in his heart, forcing said thing to remain cold and frozen instead.

He _needed_ to be strong, _had_ to be strong. He needed to keep his family together, keep it safe. But in all his time he had never realized just how close he was to becoming like his father, like John Winchester. Someone who wanted to appear strong first and foremost, who quenched every hope of emotion other than anger before they could do anything even short of starting to bloom; who had locked away anything and everything since the love of his life had died, the scalding, propelling feeling of revenge replacing the once blossoming warmth of love Dean could not even remember ever coming from his father.

Years ago Dean had decided to never become like him. For much too long he had been willing to become his exact copy, every little bit of energy directed to solely be like him—mannerisms, gestures, likes and dislikes—but by the time he had found and created his own little family with Sam and Cass, he found he was way too close to being his father to turn around without any help.

Setting the car into reverse he turned and sped out of the bunker’s garage, Sam giving directions while being a reassuring presence keeping him grounded to reality as they followed the road down the hill, taking lefts and rights and rights and lefts, trees, forests passing by in nothing but a weak, colorful blur.

“ _Stop_!” Sam yelled, causing Dean to hit the brakes way too hard, the resulting sound emerging from within the car making his face scrunch up in a wince, “It’s here.”

Looking up Dean couldn’t say he found anything specific; there was still nothing but a tiny forest surrounding them, completely devoid of any kind of humanity as far as he could see, but Dean parked the car on the side of the road either way, stepping out and trusting Sam’s hunch—or rather GPS tracker.

Following his brother through a couple of especially thick trees lining the forest floor with their roots like a thick blanket, he gazed around in a frantic search, one hand on his gun in case of emergency. Sam led the two of them as his eyes remained locked onto the screen of his phone radiating bright light even with the sun shining above them, barely registering as they entered some sort of hidden and abandoned park. Flowers bloomed and created a sweet scent practically tickling Dean’s nostrils as he passed by, ivy climbing up trees and leftover benches from when people had perhaps once been frequenting this place. It was still early morning and apart from his mind circulating around Cass and his condition, Dean could only think of Sam; he had most likely already been awake for hours following his usual routine—going for a run, hitting the shower, having a healthy meal, checking on Cass every now and then, calling him over and over hoping for his return.

Until he had realized there was no change in his location.

“He should be nearby,” Sam muttered, still glancing at the phone clutched tightly in his hands, “Somewhere—“

“ _Cass_!” The yell echoing out of Dean’s mouth interrupted Sam mid-sentence, forcing him to look up from the phone nestled in his hands to which he almost dropped it.

“Cass, _Cass_ we’re here,” Dean slid to his knees right next to Castiel’s body lying motionless amidst a couple of stones and grass and petals lining the forest floor, “We’re here, wake up buddy, _please_.”

Dean’s pleas fell on deft ears. His hands desperately clutched onto his trench coat, hurling Cass’ upper body up and into his arms. The fabric felt rough beneath his grasp as his fingers curled around the collar to shake him, swiftly moving one hand behind his back to keep him steady and press him farther into his chest.

Blood, there was so much _blood_ on his white dress-shirt, around his mouth, smudged halfway across his face as if he had tried to wipe it in a hurry. Petals littered the floor, looking perversely beautiful as they created a crimson blanket around the fallen angel and the scent bit Dean’s nose—a mixture of flowers and iron, of _life_ and _death_.

Sam crouched on his other side, at least superficially keeping his cool as he usually did even in the direst of situations. With expert movements akin to a professional he grasped Cass’ wrist, checking his pulse, brushed his hand against his forehead checking for a fever, before addressing Dean whose thoughts had decided to run a mile a minute.

He was _not_ going to lose him, not now. Especially not to some kind of dumb witch, of all things. They fought against so many creatures together, fought their way through hell and back, through purgatory and back—he was an Angel of the Lord, for god’s sake! No itty bitty _witch_ was going to end his life, not here, not now, not _ever_.

“He’s alive but unconscious,” Sam spoke, voice layered thick with despair even though he tried to appear calm and collected as he gave Cass a gentle pat on his shoulder, “And he’s having a fever. We should—“

“—Get him back home, I know.”

God, he knew. To his _home_ —Dean should have really made sure Cass knew it was _his_ home too, should have assured him that they wanted him, never mind whether he felt the felt the same towards them they felt for him. To Dean he was family. He was their family and he should have never made him believe this wasn’t the case, should have never let him leave without telling him the truth.

God, he was such a _coward_ , running away from the mere prospect of admitting to having _feelings_.

“Sammy, could you—“ In a swift movement and without further spoken words Sam had plucked the keys out of Dean’s pockets and started leading the way back to their car, Dean rising with the angel limp in his arms, blood smearing against his shirt. Their steps hung heavy in the air, feet leaving behind messy prints in the mud as they made a race for the way they had came from. Cass was hot in Dean’s arms, burning way too bright in his grasp.

Was he actually having a fever? An angel having a _fever_?

How could one single witch be that powerful? They must have been right beside Rowena in their ranks and he wanted to doubt that even Rowena could have been capable of hurting an angel without the use of an angel blade—was that the point? _Angel blades_? Probably not.

The door of Baby opened with a click, Dean squishing himself onto the backseat with Cass still heavy and immobile in his arms, glad that Sammy was taking the wheel for once, no matter how much he wished to drive if only to slam down the gas pedal to maximum intensity no matter the consequences.

Sam though seemed to have a similar goal in mind evident by the way he hit the pedal with an intensity that would have actually made Dean cringe any other day, who kept his eyes instead on Cass breathing weakly in his arms making noises that should definitely not be sounding from a living being whatsoever. Worlds could have sped past the car but Dean wouldn’t have noticed as he grit his teeth and clenched his jaw in barely contained anger, hand moving to gently grasp Cass’ cheek to anchor himself, feeling the weakened, taken breaths as a reminder to reassure himself that his best friend was still with him and _alive_.

This was his _family_. Just why the hell did something always go wrong for the people he loved?

——————

“Might have—lead—“

A voice sounded through the thick darkness he found himself in and for a short moment of panic he feared to be caught in the Empty—Deathbed for angels and demons alike. The last memory coursing through his mind wasn’t a pleasant one and he didn’t deem it entirely impossible for him to actually having died.

He remembered arguing with Dean, remembered rushing out of the bunker, farther and farther through the woods trying to get lost in nature all the way until he reached a little park tucked away amidst a clearing in the forest. Chirping and singing of birds, buzzing of insects and the smell of sweet flowers had managed to successfully take the edge off of him for a while as he stood in the middle of a pathway of plants. Ivy dotted the trees around him, adorning the wooden bark like an intricate pattern woven for nobility and in that moment he had felt more at peace than he had for quite some time. He assumed it must be connected to the Garden of Eden, to angels natural connection to nature inscribed deeply into their brains ever since their creation.

“One victim—Arkansas,” the voice chatted on, noise akin to the sensation of being underwater making it more difficult for Castiel to grasp the words and their meaning as they floated out of his reach, “Nobody believed—Witness—“

The blackness appeared to swirl in front of his eyes and he almost wanted to stay. Everything seemed perfectly numb and it reminded him of how he had existed back a couple of centuries ago. He had once been a soldier, a good one. Heeding the commands given to him and carrying out his duty properly were the only parts of his daily agenda, never would he have even entertained the possibility of rebellion, of insubordination. Questions were nothing but another word he had no need to find the meaning for, order and rules were all he cared about. But ever since he had received the mission to save a soul from perdition, ever since he had entered hell to save—

“Then we’ll leave.”

— _Dean_.

His voice pulled him back into reality, upper body lurching forward into a sitting position despite a multitude of hands grabbing at him to push him back down, voices talking to him urging him to rest. A pair of hands seemed brighter than the other, glowed warmer, more fiercely and determined, and with his mind still caught half in blinding darkness only now starting to get broken to pieces and torn apart by specs of light, he moved to grab them; one of Cass’ hands clinging to an arm holding onto his back, the other one clutching onto the firm but gentle grasp of a hand on the spot between his shoulders and his neck, Cass’ fingers closing tightly around a wrist.

The thrumming of a pulse below the warm skin managed to calm him significantly and he felt a suffocating breath leave his torn and broken throat that ached to an extent leaving him unable to speak, barely enabling him to breathe.

“Cass?” His voice, he had missed his voice more than he ever thought he could miss. “You alright buddy? We’re with you.”

Other than Dean no one dared to speak, everything around him having fallen silent apart from the light sizzling of what perhaps might have been a cauldron bubbling with some sort of elixir, smell like cinnamon and an assorted variety of other herbs wafting through the room and entering Castiel’s nostrils. If he would have felt up for the challenge, he could have very well taken apart every single ingredient residing within the mixture, perk of being an angel he assumed—even though his grace seemed to currently fail at even the basics of keeping him alive.

Through a haze his eyes finally managed to shy the darkness away, looking into a face in front of his staring down at him with worry looming behind usually guarded green eyes that now seemed almost dull in the lack of sunlight; like a forest on a foggy day. Dean’s mouth was pulled into a frown as his eyes wandered across Cass’ face, searching to gauge his condition as if looking for anything amiss.

“We’re glad to have you back,” Dean breathed, shoulders slumping as he sat on the edge of the bed with Castiel who felt the mattress dip beneath the added weight. Sam standing on his other side gave a relieved sigh as Cass’ eyes finally fell on him, acknowledging his presence. The cauldron was in fact merely a little metallic bowl resting on a table in front of Sam, yellow smoke fuming in thick clouds, puffing so high they almost reached the ceiling clad in white. In Sam’s hands was a pestle, sparks and bits of yellow leaves still lining the end of it as he had just used it to mix the ingredients together.

“Our little angel awoke I take it?” another voice cut in; Castiel now realized it came from a phone placed on the table next to the fuming bowl, voice belonging to none other than Rowena herself. Apparently she took the silence as affirmation of her more or less rhetorical question.

“Great! Samuel?” Sam didn’t even appear irked anymore by the use of his full name and merely perked up, grip momentarily tightening around the pestle, “Now the incantation.”

Unclenching his fingers he placed the instrument down, taking a powder from a little velvet bag beside him and throwing a handful of it into the mix with a gentle flick of his wrist. Castiel could only lightly tilt his head and watch through half-lidded eyes in vague fascination as Sam started chanting in latin, smoke changing color with his words before settling for a deep, dark orange, mist seemingly growing tangible for a second before dropping down to the table and dissipating at once.

“Orange, is it not?”

“Yes,” Sam dutifully replied, picking up the bowl with acute movements of his hands, pushing its contents through a sieve and into a little bottle made of glass.

“Now, give it to our angel,” Rowena continued over the speaker, Cass only raising a questioning eyebrow at her behavior. His hand shook terribly against his will as he tried to take the bottle out of Sam’s hands, vision growing hazy and his gaze turned to light frustration as Dean swatted at his attempts, taking the bottle instead. Cass wanted to fight remembering their latest exchange with narrowed eyes, gaze so cold it could freeze on spot, but his body merely gave a shiver despite how hot he felt, sinking back against the cushions to allow him to rest his head against the headboard.

As if sensing his internal conflict, Rowena intervened and spoke into the silence,

“Oh Castiel, _still_ not trusting me?”

He wanted to reply with ‘ _You have already cursed me once before_ ’ but opted to keep quiet, not sparing her with a response—not wishing to further upset his throat that had the words stuck inside either way—just for one, petty response. Instead he focused his eyes on the liquid resting in Dean’s hands, not quite wishing to give him the satisfaction of looking into his eyes no matter how much his own body begged for him to do so.

Rowena sighed.

“It’s a potion that prolongs the effects of a curse for, perhaps three days at most,” she spoke, slight grin evident in the way she pronounced certain words with special care as if proud of knowing that she was the one who came up with it, “It only works _once_. We do not have much time finding a cure I am afraid. Also,” she adds on, more somber once again, “Moving around might cause the spell to wear off faster.”

Now his gaze did fall on Dean, finding him already staring as if his attention had never even left him in the first place—the sincere pain flooding the green of Dean’s eyes made Cass’ chest ache even further and he wanted to be mad at himself for constantly growing weak in his decisions whenever Dean was involved.

Though it had always been like that, hadn’t it?

Ever since he had freed him from his prison in hell, Dean only needed as much as call for him and he was there, ready to do anything to help him. The angels had called him out for his behavior from the very beginning but Cass had been too blinded to see it, too insistent on his mission being for the sake of heaven first and foremost. But that had been years ago, back when Castiel hadn’t understood what emotions were.

He had not understood that the moment he had freed Dean Winchester from his demise was also the moment he had fallen. Not only from heaven and its beliefs, but also for the righteous man himself.

Giving a strained nod towards Dean, Cass watched as he seemed to have an internal conflict going on, raging behind his eyes, within his soul. No matter what the man had gone through, his soul was still shining as brightly as the day he had been saved. Not a single thing could corrupt Dean, not a single thing could taint the very essence of his being with so much as a single spec of dirt, not even months to years of torture in hell itself.

Each time he gazed at Dean he was reminded that he fell for his soul first.

Cass could never hate him, he knew that. Dean could say whatever he wanted, yell and scream it at his face, punch and kick him whenever he was overtaken by rage or even without any reason whatsoever.

Cass would _always_ love him.

Having taken the nod as approval, Dean carefully placed the vial on Cass chapped lips, other hand moving to hold onto his chin, prying open his slack mouth and tilting his head back for him to be forced to swallow the liquid. A droplet of sweat ran down the side of his face getting caught on Dean’s hand, touch a warming presence once more irrationally aiding in clogging his throat and adding to the heat of the fever—he wasn’t sure whether he cared as he gulped down the potion in a haste, spluttering causing a few drops to drip down his chin before a ragged breath tore through his mouth. With a shudder along his spine he felt the liquid trickle down his torn throat, heightened angel senses making him painfully aware of every sensation currently transpiring within his body:

The flutter in his chest and burning in his throat from feeling Dean’s hand gently hold his chin in his hand, sensing his breath ghosting across his skin from being so close, eyes trying to follow his gaze as it moved across his face. He noted the worry clouding the green like mist resting in a forest, blurring the vibrancy, veiling the spark, dimming the fire that usually resided within him, within Dean’s very soul. He wanted to shake him until it returned.

Not even a few seconds later something seemed to react in his chest. It tightened for a moment, causing his entire body to tense and stiffen making the Winchesters freeze alongside him before the pain subsided and he relaxed against the bed, Dean’s hand leaving his face as he stood from his place next to Cass. Still, the feeling of something residing within his chest never really left, remaining an uncomfortable presence.

Despite every cell in his body screaming at him to rest, he closed his eyes and let his grace pulse against every inch of his body, trying to detect the curse and directly attack it while it rested dormant—it was either _now_ or _never_.

With a sharp intake of air making the hair of his neck stand in sudden agony, his eyes shot open wide with the realization that hit him. He had never even wanted to contemplate leaving Jimmy’s former body behind to escape in a dire threat regarding life and death, not knowing how, when and _if_ he would ever find another vessel strong enough to hold him, but now he figured that even if he _wanted_ to, he _couldn’t_. The curse had wound itself tightly around his grace like a snake around its prey, restricting an assortment of his abilities and explaining his inability to properly heal himself he had written of as a mere inconvenience so far.

He was locked within this body with no way out.

Without a cure he would inevitably die along with it.

“So, while Rowena worked on the spell for a potion,” Sam continued, gently taking the bottle back from Dean with worry clearly lining his features and making him look years older under the morbid watch of stress, “Dean and I looked around for cases with similar symptoms. We found out that someone died about two years ago in Arkansas, because—because of ‘flowers growing in his lungs’.”

Eyes moving to catch Dean the angel found that the sorrow dripping off of the hunter was an almost tangible thing; so palpable in fact, Castiel felt he could touch it if he was willing to try. His green eyes kept looking towards the floor as he stood next to the bed so incredibly stiff, Castiel worried he might snap in two under the tension. In a purely intuitive gesture he reached out, fingertips barely managing to come in contact with the skin on Dean’s hand hanging stiffly beside him and closing his eyes as warm sparks weakly and scarcely managed to leave his body to move into Dean’s, opening his eyes back up only to catch his shoulders dropping, obvious tension dissipating while Dean’s eyes softened. Most likely more because of the gesture than actual effects, considering Cass’ malfunctioning grace getting worse with every passing second.

“Either way,” Sam spoke up, having watched the entire exchange of the past couple of minutes with the hint of a fond smile tugging at his lips despite the dire situation, “Dean and I will leave to question the witness. Rowena will stay in contact with you in case she finds out more.”

Cass’ focus returned at once.

“I want to go with you—“

The words were broken despite the potion keeping his symptoms at bay while his grace worked on healing his throat for now, but out of pure habit from one month of being cursed a cough eased out of his mouth as well. In an immediate reaction to his statement, hands were on his chest, gentle but firm as if leaving no room for arguments as they pushed him back down to rest, his head falling into the soft cushions.

“No, _definitely_ not,” Dean spoke, voice stern but clearly worried and Cass decided to for now forget the last dispute they had going on—not as if he could possibly ever hold it against him for long either way, “We found you knocked out cold man, you’re _literally_ swaying while sitting.”

Only now did he realize his head seemed to be slightly spinning, skin much too warm while another droplet of sweat got caught on his eyebrow on its way down from his forehead burning as if stuck in an oven.

“Cass, you’re even having a fever.” The weak chuckle easing out of Dean’s throat at that remark seemed to be more of a forced reaction to try and bring joke and lightheartedness back to the trio plus Rowena, who still hung patiently waiting in line, “You’ll go nowhere. We’ve got you covered; call us if something happens.”

Castiel wanted to protest, he really did. But how should he if he knew they were right?

“Alright,” he said instead, leaning his head back to rest against the bed’s wooden headpiece, “Good luck.”

With an uneasy grin from Dean and an affirmative nod from Sam the siblings left the room, leaving behind a broken angel and a nosy witch already itching to pry for information and knowledge—best be the sort to blackmail, she might as well speak her thoughts out loud.

“So,” the devil in Prada began to speak, grin clearly lacing her voice with a hint of amusement despite the worry she couldn’t manage to completely hide peeking through the gaps, “What’s with the drama I’ve picked up on? How’s it between that hunter of yours and you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer—I actually don’t know John Winchester at all, lol.  
> I started properly watching the show at season 4 (and only watched season 1-2 a long time ago??) Idk from what I’ve gathered I don’t like him, oops—
> 
> Just want to remind everyone here that this is only _based _on the Hanahaki disease? As such it’s not even really a fictional disease in this story, but a spell crafted by a powerful witch that only everyone who ever had the book knows of—Sam and Dean will talk to the friend of a victim soon.__
> 
> _  
> _//chanting// Witch Sam! Witch Sam! WitcH SAM—_  
> _


	6. Stuck In Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam have a little talk about guilt during their drive, Cass gets pestered by Rowena and a witness gets questioned.

Another pothole hit the Impala head on and Dean would have cursed more than just a single word if it hadn’t been for the urgency taking the wheel while he was simply driving shotgun, acting as a mere vessel of its rage. Sam didn’t mind the way the car shook every time Dean didn’t manage to swerve out of the way before it happened, instead revising what they were going to ask the witness, readying their FBI disguises with scary precision.

Every second in which they had not yet reached their destination was a second in which Cass’ condition slipped further and further into possibly irreversible—considering the ‘Winchester Curse’ this road could only lead towards certain death.

No, Dean couldn’t allow that.

He remembered how all these years ago he had tried _anything_ to refrain from getting close to people to prevent this exact thing from happening, had even tried to convince Sam into _not_ pulling Adam into all of this, leaving him behind clueless but with his own life in his hands. Yet Sam had insisted him being a Winchester had already cursed him—and apparently he had been right.

Dean had already failed Adam, his very own half-brother. Dean had failed him all these years ago when he hadn’t managed to keep him safe, and the poor kid was still suffering from the consequences Dean’s failure had brought upon him—should he even still be alive.

The Winchester Curse had only one goal: Killing off anyone getting close to Dean. Too many had already suffered the fate, too many for his heart to even bear their faces and he couldn’t stand adding another to the pile, another face to feed the pit of guilt eating away silently in his stomach as he quietly lamented their unjust deaths.

Family doesn’t end with blood—Dean knew that. Yet still, with Adam gone only Sam was left from his immediate relatives; his father, his mother, grandparents and half-brother, even his surrogate father Bobby had been taken years ago fighting alongside Sam and Dean. So many had been taken and he couldn’t allow for the Winchester Curse to continue even further down its road.

But by now it was too late, wasn’t it?

The curse had already been eating away at Cass for one month, one _entire_ month in which they had been absolutely clueless, taking way too long for them to even find out about it. And Dean had done _nothing_ but blame Cass for not telling him, when it was _Dean_ who had made Cass feel too uncomfortable to confide in them in the first place. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t deserve the lack of trust he received; He still hated himself for everything he had done to the angel, for giving nothing in return when Cass had done so much for them. Over and over did he stay with them, stay on their side even as heaven itself called for his assistance and forced him to choose.

Perhaps Cass should have taken the Angel Blade back then. Perhaps Cass should have used his chance in reclaiming his rightful place in heaven and punish Dean for his disobedience even if all he did was accidentally murder Tessa—but he had done so much more, so much—

“ _Dean_!”

His focus returned to the street in an instance, eyes wide searching but luckily finding nothing amiss. Baby was still safely driving along the right lane, speed far over whatever was allowed, though it wasn’t as if he cared in the slightest. Never had, never will, _especially_ not now.

“Huh?”

“Cass would _kill_ me for letting you wallow in self-pity,” Sam explained with a groan, trying to opt for humor but falling flat, Dean giving him a sidewards glance to catch his distraught expression. With sudden determination Sam righted himself in his seat, face set into frightening resolve.

“Listen—“ His voice had grown more stern, almost bordering on trying to sound reprimanding like a disappointed parent and Dean was torn between mourning Sam’s wasted opportunity in becoming a great father and feeling actually chastised like a lost child— “Whatever’s going on in your brain? Don’t listen.”

It seemed all very well for Sam to talk; as if following his advice was a feat easily accomplished. Though the deep breath he took told Dean another tale.

“We’ve been through a lot, _hell_ , we’ve lost a _lot_ of people—and believe me when I say that I can still see them. Their faces, I mean. I see them in front of me, all the time. Everyone we couldn’t save.”

The unintentional reminder sat heavy within Dean and from buried deep inside his mind the faces of long lost friends and family started to reappear.

_Kevin_ , best prophet they could have ever hoped for, kind soul and smart kid. He had a life planned, had every little detail drawn out in form of a little mind map, Dean was sure of it. Everything was planned, until it wasn’t. Until it all came crashing down, burying Kevin with responsibility he could have never been prepared for, responsibility along with his sense of justice that inevitably sealed his demise as he had tried to help Dean in saving Sam.

_Charlie_ , greatest nerd and best little sister he could have ever had, intelligent hacker beyond reach of any other mortal beings. Her life was nothing but video games, TV shows, movies and her work, until she got pulled in by the Winchesters. And once she had been thrown inside the cage that was a life filled with terror and danger disguised as a secure bunker, there had been no escape. She had died, doomed herself giving everything to save Dean from his inevitable demise.

_Adam_ , the family he had never gotten to know and now never would, the brother that had been forced to take Dean’s place in acting as a weapon for an archangel when he had stubbornly refused. Dean remembered finding out that he had majored in biology and went to university to study pre-med, living a normal life and ambitiously striving to make a change. All he had ever wanted was to help, and Dean had no doubt he would have helped a ton of people, would have saved a ton of lives. But then the Winchesters had stepped into his life, turning everything upside down merely by being related to him and in the end he had lost everything, fallen into a cage meant to keep whatever fell in there trapped for forever. Michael must have no doubt corrupted him by now, if not already outright eradicated him—Lucifer had implied as much.

There were so, _so_ many more people he had failed over the course of his life, so many voices that had been heard one last time years ago, faces that had been seen one last time years ago—people that had had their lives laid out in front of them taken off of the face of Earth in the blink of an eye.

He had tried to desperately forget about the people he had lost, for remembering every of their faces would have long since worn him down until he was nothing but a shell of his former self, incapable of doing much more than exist and lament and mourn their losses.

And now Cass’ life was on the line as well. He had already done so much for them, so much that could never be repaid. The least Dean could do was spare him the curse that was his very own existence, pulling everyone down with them and forcing them to die—not coming back to life, no matter how many times Death refused to finally take Dean himself and end it all.

“ _Dean_ —“ Sam’s voice invaded his thoughts once more, hand on his shoulder grounding him to reality as he blinked to let the faces blur back into the far crevices of his mind— “Dean, you need to listen to me.”

Dean didn’t even quite feel his own head nod, eyes still locked on the road laid out in front of them to make sure that at least Sammy didn’t have to die from Dean swerving off the road in despair.

“We lost many people, that’s true. But their deaths are _not_ our fault. They’ve made their own decisions and as terrible as that sounds, we couldn’t have done anything to change that.”

The atmosphere in the car seemed to grow tense as Dean started to blank out, mind numbing in a mixture of pain, anger and fear.

“The only thing we can do to honor them is to live on,” Sam continued, and Dean felt the intensity of his stare burn on the side of his head as he refused to turn, “It took me a while to understand and accept too, but it’s the truth. Remember that they’ve never died only for us—but for the future we all believed in.”

“Yeah?” Dean couldn’t help it; the anger had been bubbling beneath the surface for too long again and he had no means to suppress it, having tried clenching his jaw shut for the past eternity in hopes of warding any bad reaction off, “Then tell me, Sammy, what about Kevin?”

His hands clamped uncomfortably around the steering wheel, knuckles white against the dark material and he vaguely caught Sam flinching at the mention of his name.

“What future did Kevin believe in? He was just a _child_. A child going to school that got caught up in all of this bullshit. He died because I asked him to help me, Sammy.”

In his peripheral vision he noticed Sam opening his mouth to retaliate, but Dean beat him to it.

“And Charlie? What about Charlie? She died because she tried to find a way to free me from a mark that I took upon _myself_ —it was _my_ choice to take it and she had to sacrifice herself to get rid of it.”

His mind was running a mile a minute, in circles over and over, trampling in the same beaten path of long thought buried guilt and regret which clawed its way free like a zombie from its grave trying to ease the remnants of soil out of its way as it struggled to the surface.

“And Adam—“ he almost stopped short, having refrained from addressing him for years and years on end— “He took my place as a vessel, he took _my_ place because I was too stubborn to accept. What he had to go though should have been me—It’s what these dicks of angels pulled me out of hell for, _dammit_! He was a _kid_ , another teen with a bright future that _I_ corrupted.”

Sam stayed silent after his first attempt of interrupting him, deciding to let him vent his frustration in peace. After all these years of eating everything up, the point had been reached in which it all finally spilled over—a pot of boiling water left for too long on the stove. The mere thought of losing Cass one more time the possible last straw it took to end his unspoken vow of forced silence.

“And Cass,” Dean started once more, hands clenching and unclenching from their grip around the steering wheel periodically, mouth pulled into a deep frown, “—I can’t be the reason another time, I _can’t_ be responsible for another death.”

Because he was. It was _his_ fault Cass got hit by the spell in the first place. As usual. He had been too beaten up, couldn’t make it out of the witch’s range in time for them to throw another spell at him—the one Cass took in a heartbeat as soon as he knew that Dean couldn’t move out of the way. Cass himself was too far from the witch to smite her, and too far from Dean to pull him out of the way. So he took it.

“Their deaths were tragic,” Sam relented, voice calm against Dean’s raging inferno, “And terribly unfair. There was not a single thing deserved of what happened to them, and there’s not a single moment in which I don’t think about how I could have prevented it.”

Now Dean did spare a glance, narrowed eyes softening as they fell on Sam’s concentrated gaze staring straight ahead, out through the window and onto the street. The sky was already starting to darken—evidence on how the time was slipping through their fingers as steadily as the change of color flowing from crystal blue to a tint of orange and reds, to pink and purple before soon and inevitably turning pitch black.

“What if _I_ hadn’t tried the trials that left me near dead, what if _I_ had taken the mark instead of you, what if _I_ hadn’t said ‘yes’ to Lucifer in the first place—“ he swallowed around the lump stuck in his throat— “But these doubts will always be there. The only thing I can do is _live_ for them. I can’t change what happened, so I honor the possibilities they gave me by not giving up. I will _never_ give up.”

Sam, who had decided to in the middle of his speech stare right at Dean, let the words sink in for a while and turned back around to watch the world pass by in a blur as Dean sped along the highway. Dean had admired Sam’s hope, his faith. How he appeared to never give up, always pull through with every last bit of strength residing within him. The more people they had lost, the stronger he seemed to have gotten—and only _now_ did Dean understand it was all for _them_. For everyone they had lost.

Sam wanted to create the future they had died for.

“And you won’t lose him,” Sam added quietly, fingers tightening on Dean’s shoulders and dragging him back out of his thoughts another time before he let go, “Because we _will_ save him, no matter what.”

The determination still radiated from his voice, this time in cooling,cleansing waves which put Dean’s mind to rest, easing the flames of rage he had felt licking at his brain mere seconds ago—the rage having merely been a weak spark either way, only hoping for contradiction to fuel the fire; contradiction he didn’t receive. Instead he got compassion, understanding. He got what he needed.

Sam’s eyes found his and he read all the love and trust residing within him, feeling peace flood him like calming waves at the shore.

“Because when we’re together there’s _always_ a way.”

—————

Something akin to a laugh rang through the speaker from where it still rested on the table next to Castiel and he had half his mind to stand up simply to end the call and spare himself the mindless chatter.

“Now, now dear,” Rowena spoke with an obvious grimace lacing her words, “I need no magic to know that the two of you have had another argument.”

Like he had done for the past hours ever since Sam and Dean had left, he remained completely impassive to her incessant prying into matters that didn’t concern her, only ever thinking about leaving the room or turning off the phone. But then again, the brothers have asked of him to stay in contact with her and he didn’t wish to disappoint them. After all, to her credit, Rowena was trying to save his life.

The fever that had made him weary enough to stay, resting on his back on the mattress in the first place, was still trying to recede—it felt as if his grace was actively trying to fight the curse within him and, as a result, attempted to burn him along with it. Considering how he currently felt, he certainly did not want to find out what would happen after Rowena’s spell wore off.

“I mean, _honestly_ —“ her voice continued babbling on and Castiel wondered if she knew that he paid her no mind— “What _is_ it with the two of you? As soon as someone’s in danger, you’re right at each other’s throat.”

“ _Rowena_ —“ Okay, he _did_ have enough— “Does your speech have any purpose other than your own entertainment?”

The sigh that tore through the speakers was so awfully over-dramatic, it almost hurt Cass to listen.

“All I want to say is— _fix it_. Life is short and—“ She interrupted herself for a dry, mirthless laugh— “Especially for you right now my dear! And there will be _no_ time to fix past mistakes when you’re dead. Only time to lament them.”

She grew still for a moment and Castiel considered whether she ended the call herself, until her voice piped up once more.

“Well probably not for you, with you ending up in the Empty.”

He _certainly_ had enough of that witch.

——————

Giving a tug at the black suit he was wearing to momentarily distract himself, Dean’s eyes strayed around the witness’s apartment. He took note of a couple of photographs as he passed them by, the victim and the witness—Julie—holding onto each other, sun shining on their skin irritating the camera as sunspots danced around and part of the picture blurred as a result.

Louis Stacey, Dean recalled from his notes, the victim of the unknown disease; or rather curse. His dark skin had a healthy shine to it along with his black hair, eyes a vivid brown and lips pulled up in a bright smile telling him that the photo must have been taken well before he fell ill. While Julie’s eyes were focused on the camera, Louis was staring right at her with intense focus and a terribly fond look on his face—so sickeningly sweet Dean feared he was about to get diabetes.

Soon after looking around the narrowed space of the entrance, Julie came back, carrying two mugs with steaming hot coffee in her hands. She handed them to Sam and Dean who had introduced themselves as Agent Walsh and Agent Williams respectively. Giving another quick glance at the photograph Dean found that Julie had grown her hair out ever since the accident two years ago judging by their length, red hair pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head. Her green eyes were tired and Dean couldn’t blame her after they were rolling up a case long since left forgotten.

He hadn’t felt truly alive ever since their talk in the car either, instead he felt confined; pressed flat by the weight of his memories. Maybe he’d at least come out of this as a diamond, he mused.

“So you want to know about—about Louis death?” she spoke, voice soft and drenched in grief as she sat down on the white couch resting in her living room, motioning for the brothers to sit down on the one across from her, “Why?”

Sam used the inquiry as his cue to speak, giving a glance at Dean’s distraught expression and deciding to take on the leading role in this case. It had been sort of mutually agreed that Sam was clearly better at being empathetic and properly communicating with witnesses and other people they had to question, and with Dean’s current condition streaked with worry and fear their collective agreement had become even more important.

“Another victim of the same disease has been found and we believe the illness to stem from outside forces.”

“You mean like _poison_?” Her mouth was pulled into a wide ‘o’, shock lining her features as they confronted her with a revelation on the scale of ‘We are all merely living in a TV show and our only purpose is someone else’s entertainment.”

Not quite knowing how to answer this without delving too much into their actual profession, he went with the apparent accusation instead.

“Yes, something similar.” He shifted in his position on the couch, taking a sip from his coffee to think about his next question. Dean next to him looked caught deeply in thought, mug still unmoving in his hands and Sam was almost amazed that he held himself together that well. There was no doubt Dean would give anything to jump up and immediately take down whoever had been responsible for all of this.

“Now, I know this has been a long time ago for you, but we would like you to tell us everything you know about what happened,” Sam addressed the young woman seated in front of him, “Every little detail.”

“I can only tell you what I tried to tell the police, but they didn’t listen and—and immediately thought me insane and instead wrote this all off as a—a ‘ _prank gone wrong_ ’—“ she stuttered, choking on her words and Sam visibly deflated in sympathy. Losing someone dear to you and not being taken seriously while you plead for someone, _anyone_ to believe you to prove that you weren’t turning insane was a terrible punishment no one deserved. Sam gave a nod, seemingly managing to reassure her in continuing through the raging tornado that were her thoughts.

“Okay,” she took a deep breath, “So there was the night before the coughing started—oh god, we all thought it was a cold or something back then, but now... _poison_?”

Julie fought with the seemingly newfound discovery, wringing her hands in her lap and steeling herself to continue.

“Louis stumbled through my door and told me he got ambushed. Someone attacked him in an alley, he—he said at first he couldn’t breathe anymore but when I asked him again he said it was okay. After a couple of days he started coughing up blood, a few weeks later petals—until...until he—“

With shaking hands she picked up the glass of water standing next to her, taking a sip to ease the dryness in her throat and calm herself before continuing.

“I was told he had _flowers_ growing in his lungs. His—his _lungs_ , they were filled with roots and flowers and petals, until...until he suffocated.”

The faint sound of birds chirping happily could be heard through the opened windows, contrasting with the heavy atmosphere surrounding the three figures seated on soft cushions.

“...Do you think the attacker managed to poison him? And how? And why didn’t the coroners notice anything? And—“

Now their excuse was running out of air.

With lightly raised hands he tried to bring the situation back under control. “We aren’t exactly sure. We just want to take every possibility into account and prevent this from ever happening to anybody again.” Sam tried hard not to think about the fact that this was what had been going on with Cass for the past month. Flowers growing within his lungs—the mere thought made him almost gag and as he glanced at Dean he found him unmoving and still, eyes widened and unfocused. Like an abandoned shell, empty on the inside.

He forced himself to continue with a cough.

“The attacker was never found, right? Did he describe the person that attacked him in any way?”

“Yes,” she replied, obviously wrecking her brain trying to remember, “But it was night, so I’m not sure how helpful this could be.”

Sam motioned for her to give it a shot while Dean finally took a sip out of the mug filled with, by now, cold coffee resting in his hands. The cup shook lightly in his hold—a token of his suppressed fury and fear.

“The person had long, dark—maybe brown—hair, with petals stuck to it. In their arm was a book, I think he said it was yellow,” she spoke, absentmindedly scratching her arm in an attempt to calm herself, “Oh, there was a necklace too! He said it looked like, uh—“ Julie scrambled for words, trying to explain a symbol she had heard of only once, two years ago— “I think he said it looked like a snake in form of an infinity symbol? So that it’s eating its own tail...and its eyes were yellow gemstones. He said it was one of the things that he remembered the most vividly.”

Sam nodded enthusiastically, brown hair falling into his face which he quickly brushed back behind his ear in a distracted gesture. This was something they could work with, he was sure. He could feel the information trying to puzzle itself together in his brain, already readying his next few steps when he heard Dean speak up next to him, voice low and leveled.

“I’ve seen the photographs near the entrance,” Julie’s head snapped towards him, momentarily shocked before her mouth eased into something akin to fond but grieving, “Did he have any other relatives or friends we’re not aware of?”

Her face pulled into a slight frown.

“No,” she spoke, voice even while her fingers pulled on a loose thread of her sweater, “No, his parents died years ago on some sort of hunting trip—“ Deep in thought she didn’t catch the two brothers perk up at her words— “And he didn’t have any other friends...He wasn’t exactly a ‘people person’. He often tried to follow in his parents’ footsteps and hunt as well, so he usually wasn’t even home.”

Sam noticed Dean’s inner bell rings while his own did the same. Only the question remained whether they could let Julie in on their actual profession, asking her more in depths questions and Sam was in the middle of launching a well prepared inquiry when Dean spoke up first.

“Did your boyfriend hunt anything special?” he tried, and Sam wished he could have continued speaking instead, “Or just your regular Bugs and Daffy?”

The redhead gave a light laugh, more of a chuckle than anything and Sam wondered if it was Dean’s humor she appreciated or the implications of anything he had said.

“Just the regular stuff,” she replied with a lightly confused grin, brushing a loose strand of red behind her ear, “And, oh no, we weren’t together. We were best friends.”

—————

Castiel was sure he had heard enough from Rowena to last a lifetime.

Every now and then she had quieted, trying to pick up on another lead that ultimately wasn’t an actual lead, but before he could do as much as blink she started talking again, trying to get him to open up and share his life story with her—at least that was what she had said she wanted to know.

“Oh—“ her surprise startled him too as he turned his head, breath still slightly too shallow and head feeling too heavy. Apparently the fever still hadn’t quite managed to settle—Castiel wasn’t sure it ever would without his grace properly working.

Time had passed quickly, _much_ too quickly. It had already been twelve hours and thirty six minutes since Sam and Dean had left the bunker, making it late enough for them to be forced to stop and rest. After all, Dean had been adamant on getting at least four hours of sleep, which now that Castiel had been a human once proved to be not nearly enough to properly function. In addition to that it meant that 1/6th of the time which Rowena had promised had already gone to pass and Castiel would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid; for within him seemed to build a pit of pitch black, causing him to feel empty and hollow and making him crave nothing more than being with the Winchesters in what might be the last couple of hours before his death.

“It’s Samuel,” Rowena clarified after a while of quiet from her side and Cass could only hear her faint responses on the telephone as she conversed with the younger Winchester.

“You don’t say?” There was a pause; only the sounds of Rowena’s affirmation tearing through the silence every now and then with an appreciative hum, “That’s, that’s _great_ Samuel. _Finally_ something I can work with.”

For once she sounded actually hopeful and Cass didn’t know what that said about her earlier attempts at finding a cure.

“I will call you back in a minute darling. Be so kind and greet your brother for me, yes?”

With that the call ended and Castiel was once more left to listen to the witch direct her energy towards him.

“Great news,” she spoke, and Castiel took that as a sign to rise from his bed, taking the phone into his hands, “They found an amulet: ‘ _The Infinite Feast_ ’—a snake in form of a horizontal eight eating itself. That’s a sigil used by a very powerful witch I’ve once worked with _centuries_ ago.”

There was unmistakable pride in her voice as she braced herself to speak, preparing to plunge Castiel into a discovery she deemed important enough for a faint drumroll to fit into the pause she created—something Dean had told him about with a faint but cheerful grin on his lips.

“And I just so happen to know how to find them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house we _stan _Adam and will never forget him. And to keep my sanity I’ll just pretend that Sam and Dean never forgot either. I love having an excuse to explore the guilt they feel!__
> 
> __(Sooner or later I _will _have to write something for the Midam part of the fandom???)___ _
> 
> ____Damn I wish my brother loved me as much as Sam loves Dean. Or as much as any of them love each other for that matter—Gods, what iS LOVe?_ _ _ _
> 
> ____This has turned into a case fic, hasn’t it?  
>  As a disclaimer; I do not interfere to change the course of this Fanfiction, it does that by itself. That sounds weird but I’m really not planning anything, characters come and go, plot points wave at me as they pass by and I don’t know where this is taking me, help._ _ _ _


	7. Flowers, Talks And Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find the witch and attempt to interrogate them, Rowena has bad news for Cass who immediately starts driving there.

“Well look at that,” Dean’s voice rang through the forest along with the distracting noises of animal’s chirping and running around, stepping on the scattered twigs littering the floor, “Seems like it _is_ another witch we’re talking about after all.”

Brushing a branch out of the way with the back of his hand they marched through a forest—in the middle of the night, or rather early morning of course, because whenever does _that_ go wrong—steps silently but fiercely planted one after the other. The place they were looking for had been another four hour ride away from their last stop in Arkansas and with the speed they pulled through, it was a miracle they hadn’t drawn any attention apart from perhaps a few awed passerby.

The zero hours of sleep Dean had pulled off to immediately be right back on track were surely exhausting to say the least; Sam had at least fallen asleep during their drive and managed to get one or two hours of shut-eye, but neither of them seemed to mind either way. With priorities such as these there was nothing they wouldn’t do, nothing they wouldn’t go through to help Cass.

“According to Rowena it must be around here somewhere.”

She had put them on hold a mere couple of minutes into their call, searching through a bunch of her things strewn and tossed around in her apartment to fish out whatever it was she needed for one little spell of hers. There had been a mumble of words after a while, latin turning to an enthusiastic chanting until she panted in exhaustion but with a certain pride and relief coursing through her and her voice. Sam had listened intently, stashing away certain parts of the spell he recognized for later while marveling at other parts, attempting to absorb the knowledge of a spell meant to locate a person as long as you had something in your possession that belonged to them.

In Rowena’s case—one of the target’s spell books.

After receiving the vague coordinates from a surprisingly optimistic Rowena, narrowing down the witch’s current residence to a radius of the size of an entire town, Dean had immediately pressed on and ended the call after hearing as much as a vague warning resounding from the witch calling for precaution to instead focus on arriving as quickly as possible. With a click the phone was muted to give Sam a bit of rest before he hurled his little brother into the passenger’s seat of their trusted Impala—not that Sam had needed to be rushed. His own head was swimming in a cloud of worry for their good friend, even though he still managed to somehow function the best among all of the people assembled.

It seemed to be an ability he had somehow picked up from when he had been younger, probably enforced due to law school and the often competitive behavior of the students taking the course. Staying calm in stressful situations turned into the only method of survival in surroundings filled with sharks attempting to force him to drown, to fail, fellow students laughing as they watched their competition crash and burn.

By now he was terribly aware of how insignificant their obnoxious behavior and problems had been in comparison to what they were facing nowadays and had been facing ever since he had left university. Still, he was glad to have taken at least some things from law school with him upon departing. Being levelheaded in nearly any situation certainly made it to the top of his list.

A little wooden house popped up in a clearing not soon after, Sam and Dean pressing their backs to trees looming around like black shadows in the night to catch their breaths in their throat, waiting for any sort of reaction from the little building. In an impulsive motion most likely worsened by the pressure of time weighing down heavily on their necks, Dean stepped out of his hiding spot and advanced towards the building buried by plants of any kind climbing up the walls. Sam could only try and keep up with his brother’s frantically quick steps.

Light was burning orange through the windows as they walked up the steps to the front door, Sam wishing to punch Dean and pull him back for his blatant display of idiocy in this situation, considering this to be the home of a witch _Rowena owed a debt to_. Whatever they had done to gain a favor in Rowena’s eyes made them a wary person to be around, in Sam’s mind at least. He wasn’t so sure Dean’s judgment was functioning properly as he pulled on the door handle, finding it locked which resulted in an instinctive kick against it with such force said thing broke open, slamming against the wall and no doubt waking the entire forest with its sound.

“Woah woah, _wait_!” Hands got flung into the air as soon as they stepped fully into the first room, brown hair whipping around left and right making it appear even messier than it was in the first place as a head snapped around to look at the intruders.

“Don’t shoot! I didn’t do anything!”

In the sudden movement a couple of purple and white petals fell to the floor as if caught in a light breeze, Sam noting Dean’s stare falling on them with such hatred immediately burning in his eyes he laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, holding him back. The witch standing in front of them barely a couple of steps away glanced at them with widened, brown eyes glistening hazel in the fire sparking on the table separating them. Sam had half the mind to describe them as a hybrid between Hermoine Granger and Bellatrix LeStrange—if put into oddly modern clothes that is. Baggy black jeans reaching up to their calves, loose grey shirt stuffed into the waistband with a heavy, dark jacket sitting on their shoulders. They looked almost too casual for a witch, but perhaps that was in comparison to Rowena. Only the amulet peeking out from below a neckerchief they had wound around their throat, symbol glistening gold as it reflected the light from nearby had a mythical vibe to it.

The gun resting heavily in Sam’s hands got raised alongside with Dean’s, pointed to aim right between the eyes with an entire load of witch-killing bullets. A grunt escaped Dean, stance widening momentarily before he advanced, appearing like a hunter advancing towards its pray.

“Give us _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger and lodge this little anti-witch bullet _right_ into your damn head.”

The witch halted, face a near deadpan even recognizable with the lack of light brightening their features. “Uh, cause I, you know, _didn’t do anything_?”

To their credit, they actually looked surprisingly innocent and confused by this whole situation, eyes wide open looking almost friendly if concerned. There was an empty can of vegan soup standing on the counter next to Sam, contents already poured into the pot resting beside it as if they had been in the process of making themselves a simple meal before heading to bed. Nothing in this place seemed out of the ordinary or even screamed of murderer or furious witch—There was a TV nestled into the corner of a room Sam could glance into from where he stood, a comfortable looking couch placed in front of it. Approximately hundreds of different plants sat on any available surface everywhere Sam could see; windowsills, tables, hanging above doors, sitting in pots lined on a shelf nailed to the wall. There were candles basking the room in soft light and filling it with a sweet, calming scent. Something seemed to lightly bite from the mix of smelling objects assorted and it could have been literally anything from mere cinnamon to some kind of actual witch object Sam would be more than willing to learn about.

“Tell that to the dead man you cursed two years ago,” Dean spoke, raising his head to glare accusingly at the witch, fingers tightening around the gun.

“Oh he’s _dead_?” they asked, seeming possibly astonished as one of their hands moved to play with a long, messy strand of hair dangling in their face, “Well that’s something I didn’t know. But, hey, _wait_ —“ The words flew out of their mouth in a cry, eyes wide as Dean unsecured the gun in his hands with a simple metallic shift of gears— “ _How_ does that make _me_ the bad guy, huh? And him the good? You don’t know either of us.”

“You’re a witch,” Dean’s voice could have let water freeze and Sam couldn’t help the quick glance at the soup to see whether it had glazed over, “That’s all we gotta know.”

“Wow, you’re not prejudiced in the slightest, right?” Their hands lowered, making to be placed on their hips in an unamused gesture. “Anyway, could you put your weapons down? I’m feeling _mildly_ threatened in my own house here.”

“One bullet and you’re _dead_. Not much you could do about it,” Dean shot back, decidedly unamused by their relaxed but frustrating antics.

The room filled with silence as no one replied, no one moved a muscle even though Sam saw Dean growing more agitated with each second that passed which didn’t bring them any closer to finding a solution.

“Then why _didn’t_ you yet?” the witch retorted, head tilted as if waiting for an answer that made anywhere near sense. Sam was seconds away from a facepalm. They didn’t have any presentable response prepared for this situation, nor could they think of one fast enough to disperse the confident smile starting to form on the witch’s face, pulling their facial expression into one of pure satisfaction and a hint of haughtiness.

“Oh, _oh_! You need _information_!” they snapped their fingers as if the idea was such a revelation it needed to be accompanied by social cues to ease other people’s understanding of what was going on, “That’s, that’s okay! Like I said, no harm done. Just put your weapons down and I’ll—oh _hey_! _No_!”

Sam and Dean had about had enough from the one sided talk so far and instead moved over in tandem, Dean roughly grabbing ahold of their wrists, yanking them behind their back and securing them with a couple of ironed witch-proof shackles while Sam stood back, keeping his gun directed at them to quell any possible thoughts of escape. With a content grin Dean stepped back next to Sam, who could only marvel with a more than simply concerned feeling nagging at the back of his mind at the ease that seemed to have made this capture possible.

“That’s _not_ nice,” they replied in a grumble.

“You know,” Dean snarled with a vague grin, looking as if there was the most disgusting creature ever imaginable sitting right in front of him in shackles, “However you’ve seen me _now_ is _nothing_ compared to how I’ll get if you don’t answer. No one threatens my family and gets away with it—“

“—Please,” Sam stepped up interrupting his brother, attempting to regain control over this entire situation that seemed to have strayed decidedly too much from it, voice not nearly as agitated and lined with rage as Dean’s had been when he had addressed the witch and their face seemed to almost soften a bit as their brown eyes regarded him curiously, “All we need is answers.”

——————

“ _What_?” Cass’ shoulders slumped as he stared at the phone resting calmly in his hands, look so intense the phone could very well melt under his furious glare.

“I said these _idiots_ of yours muted their phone! I wasn’t quick enough to warn them!” To her credit, Rowena _did_ sound somewhat panicked even though her choice of words themselves spoke of nothing but disappointment. Rising from his position on the bed he moved towards the garage with less steady steps than he would have hoped, noise of shoes hitting the floor echoing through the wide and hollow room loud enough to be heard across the telephone call.

“Are you—are you up and _moving_? Castiel, you are in _no_ condition to—“

“ _Rowena_ —“ he interjected, voice back to how it had been years ago when he had still blindly followed his orders, willing to smite everyone getting in his way, “If Sam and Dean are in danger I need to help them.”

He found the car he often used whenever he needed to spend some time away from the Winchesters, or specifically whenever Dean once more seemed fed up by his mere presence. It was parked in the corner close to the exit, proof of how much he used it now that he had lost his wings.

Oh, his _wings_. If he still had them this would be no problem whatsoever, but now that he didn’t, he had a fourteen hours ride ahead of him—luckily he didn’t need any sleep and was therefore very well going to be driving through the entire night.

“Oh sweetheart, your current condition is no _joke_ ,” her voice turned somber through the speaker, “Three days was a rough estimate. When you move around too much, the time remaining could very well be reduced to half of it, if not less! I am aware you aren’t weak, but _please_ , you need to think of yourself for a moment—You’re talking about driving to _their_ _home_!”

He maneuvered out of the garage while she spoke, listening but not bothering to reply for his mind was dead set on being there as quickly as he could. The speed limit was momentarily forgotten as he sped up, leaving the bunker behind him with an alarming velocity he scarcely used, considering he was much more up for safe driving no matter how often Dean had teased him about it.

“See, dear,” there was a note of hesitation in her voice, as if she was struggling about what to say or whether to say it at all, “I—I’m not sure I should and—and I don’t really want to, but...come by my apartment, alright?”

Cass had one hand up to fix the rear view mirror before rummaging around the glovebox in the lack of light, bit of orange provided by the lamp above him while the other half of his focus remained solely on the voice quietening over the speaker. She had almost sounded frightened and Castiel wasn’t sure what she wanted, so he wasn’t aware how he should categorize her attempts at holding up a functioning conversation.

“What for?”

His lips twitched up in a light smile as his fingers brushed against what he was looking for, clasping his hand around it before pulling it out of its confinement and glancing at the label. He still wasn’t quite sure whether he was supposed to keep it or inevitably hand it back, but either way—for now Dean probably wouldn’t mind him using it and he couldn’t help but remember when Dean had first pressed it into his hands, back when he had driven shotgun in Cass’ car.

“ _Can’t believe you have no music here_ ,” he had said with a sneer that was much more of an amused smile, “ _This’s no funeral now is it_?”

Cass had wanted to explain that, no, right now they weren’t mourning any new deaths and especially not in his car and neither of them were appropriately clothed in black, before Dean had pulled a little mixtape out of his pockets.

“ _Here_ ,” he had said, Cass taking it out of his hands with gentle movements as soon as he had pulled to a stop on the side of the road to not endanger anyone with his lack of focus on driving, “ _For you_.” With a tilt of his head Castiel had turned it in his grasp, marveling at being given something before glancing at the label, ‘ _Dean s top 13 Zeppelin TRAxx_ ’ carefully written on it with blue ballpoint pen.

“ _Driving makes a lot more fun like this_ ,” Dean had said with a grin, motioning for the tape, taking it from Cass’ hands as he handed it over and flicked it into the recorder, “ _Trust me_.”

He let the memory fade away as he flicked the mixtape in his hands, putting it into the recorder just like Dean had all this time back and he couldn’t help the fond smile on his lips as music filled the air. As the music reminded him of Dean.

The light crackle on the phone caught Cass’ attention, Rowena clearing her throat before finally regaining her strength to speak.

“I’ll come with you,” came her reply.

Led Zeppelin blasted through the car while it sped along the road.

——————

“What curse did you use on the victim?”

The witch was seated on a wooden chair, hands bound together behind their back with handcuffs and ropes. Brown hair fell in a mess over their shoulder and Dean watched as another petal slipped to the floor, gliding to the ground as if without a care in the world.

“Cut to the chase, huh?” they said, tilting their head with a smirk playing on the thin line of their lips, brown eyes glinting almost dangerously in the dark.

“Listen, _kiddo_ —“

“ _Amilya_ ,” they interrupted, face momentarily devoid of smiles and instead showing something much more sinister, much more powerful than the two of them had seen in a while. In an immediate reaction Dean pointed the barrel of the gun straight at the witch’s head again, finger close to the trigger and face held high leveling a glare of similar stance at the witch. For a second they almost looked impressed by his confidence.

“—Amilya,” Dean conceded, even though he really couldn’t care any less, “That curse of yours, what does it do? _Now_.”

They crossed their legs, shifting a bit to most likely regain a more comfortable position being tied so tightly to a chair.

“Oh dear, why do you worry so much?” An vague gesture of a shrug came along with their words, restricted by the rope binding them to the chair “The man’s dead. Won’t save him now would it? _Unless_ —“

The smirk was back, wider than before, and Dean felt unsure to where this conversation seemed to be headed.

“That ‘dead man’ was a _hunter_ you know?” they switched the topic back to the corpse of two years ago and Dean felt the blood boil in his veins. Sam moved a hand to rest on his arm to remind him of the severity of the situation, even though it was all Dean could currently think about.

“Sweet little hunter looking for revenge. Sweet little hunter was a descendant of a murderer—oh, you call them hunters too, I forgot.”

Amilya’s face was suddenly eerily devoid of emotions which made Dean feel even more wary, for beneath it all was old resentment bubbling up he certainly didn’t want to face. They wanted answers, not a full blown fight.

“You see, whatever you heard was probably a story full of plot holes. There’s a reason I live in a cabin far in the woods, you know? Why would I go out of my way to kill someone as insignificant as that man?” The fact that no one answered seemed to them as proof of their point, even though the two brothers just didn’t know how to reply. “Right. I was just living my life until that man stormed in, couple more hunters following hot on his heels. Yelled at me for cursing his family or whatever, not that I could care less. But I knew this face from somewhere—one of his ancestors from centuries ago had ruined my life and I cursed him and all of his descendants to a life of bad luck or something, so there you have it.”

Whatever expression played on their face seemed almost borderline hysterical and Sam cut in quickly in his desire to play mediator and, probably, to understand.

“How did he ruin your life that you curse his _entire_ family?” The unspoken ‘this doesn’t sound quite fair’ was ringing loud in the air, despite not having been voiced.

“Doubt it will change anything if you know, but that _bastard_ had taken the one best friend I’ve ever had, had murdered my familiar back when I wasn’t quite strong enough to protect the both of us. One hit with a blade? Gone. A life ended. Disappeared as if never existent. All thanks to one man getting into hysterics because I was a witch.” Their lips were pressed into a firm line, breath taken sharply through the nose as if in physical agony. “I had barely done anything bad, actually even tried for good. I was new to all of this. I was experimenting. But one man sees colorful smoke and _poof_ , knife to the back. I’m only alive because my best friend sacrificed everything and I could never forgetnor forgive that man for what he did.”

Dean threw a glance at Sam and caught something akin to empathy written on it, wrinkles between his dark eyebrows deepening significantly, amplifying his constantly troubled expression Cass liked to comment on. Dean would have loved to feel the same—or not, actually. Sure, revenge and all, blah blah, but in the end it was Cass, his _own_ best friend that got hurt in the process. So suck it up, witch.

“So I did what most witches would’ve done I guess—“ Brown locks fell into their face with another tilt of their head, fiery gaze staring the brothers down even though Amilya had to look up at them— “I cursed his family, and then I murdered him. _Brutally_. The hunters that came with his descendant two years ago didn’t end up any different.”

Suddenly there was a shift in their expression, cold hostility gone and once more replaced by an easygoing grin Dean wasn’t sure was any better.

“You see, that spell was mostly experimental, really. I had finished it a couple centuries ago, and seeing that person looking so much like that murderer...I was sorta eager to see it work. Never got to, though.” Something in their face twisted just then, for the mere fraction of a second almost slipping his perception, something that spoke of a mixture of deep regret and disgust, of hurt and rage. “I didn’t want to see his face, didn’t want to remember. Never mind how much he possibly suffered, I stayed behind simply hoping for his demise.”

Sam’s mouth opened, then closed, before it opened again making him look like a fish gaping in water.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke, words finally leaving his tongue after most likely having waited there since the witch had begun babbling on about their life story. That was Sam for you, feeling sorry for everyone, even every monster as long as it showed even the slightest hint of human emotions.

Quiet filled the room, sometimes the sounds of insects chirping away on the outside reached their ears, but no one really listened to it.

The witch broke out in laughter. It filled the previous silence of the room with sounds so macabre as if one was to laugh at a decapitation, still tainted from the blood left behind by the head falling into their opened arms. It was just as macabre, just as absurd.

“You’re _sorry_? Did I get that right?”

Sam bit his lip afraid he had said something wrong and Dean was readying himself to send the witch to hell should they dare lay a finger on his brother.

“Oh dear, you’re sweet—“ Dean hadn’t expected that; the softness their voice had acquired and how calm their eyes had grown for a moment, gazing at Sam with wonder— “You didn’t do anything after all. Wish I would have heard these words from the man that murdered my best friend though. But I only got gurgled nonsense noises when he drowned in his own blood clogging his throat. Not that any words coming from him could have possibly changed all of their well deserved fate.”

Their gaze locked on Dean with scary intensity and he could feel the previously hot blood pulsing through his body keeping his fury alive freeze instead, threatening to turn him to immovable ice. Amilya leaned forward as much as the restraints allowed, setting both of their feet firmly against the creaking wooden boards once more.

“I see I’m not getting anywhere with _you_.”

After letting their stare linger for a couple of seconds they fell back with a dissatisfied groan, letting their hair droop over the short backrest causing it to spiral even more out of control. Kid looked like they had never before heard of a hairbrush, or even just sleep for that matter; the petals stuck in the brown tangled mass were proof enough of this theory. Dean couldn’t help another stare of disdain as a pure, white petal formerly nestled near the witch’s ear loosened and fell to the floor. By now the ground around them was positively littered with a blanket of flowers and it could only help in bringing up the pictures hidden away in the back of his mind, the images of Cass, bleeding and unconscious and covered in crimson petals. His stare hardened which Amilya silently took note off.

“So you wanna know about the spell then. I take it there was another victim? I mean,” they gave a mirthless laugh, sounding about as hollowed out as a pumpkin on Halloween, “If you only came for revenge for one, insignificant, _bastard man’s_ life—“ The way Amilya spit the words could have set entire houses on fire— “you would have _long_ since tried to kill me.”

Dean had half the mind to step up and throw a punch for stalling so much time, but Sam’s grip on his arm tightened and he clamped his mouth shut. _This was for Cass_ , he mumbled in his head, _and for Cass you need to keep your cool_.

Amilya’s gaze was still on him, studying him.

“Wow, judging by that rage I felt coming from you since you barged into my home you know the person, right?” Dean froze at the accusation, a shiver involuntarily running down his spine by the analytical nature of their focus residing on him alone. Amilya smacked their lips as if in thought, eyes roaming around the room as if contemplating something deeply.

“How far are they in? You know—“ they moved their shoulders in a vague gesture collecting their words— “Hours? Days? Weeks—“

“A month,” Dean replied, gaze sharp.

At that their eyes widened and the shock radiating from them became palpable, eyes sparkling with their very own fire as the candle next to them brightened for a second. Another tiny petal made its way down; Dean watched it out of the corner of his eye like a timer counting down the remaining hours until Cass’ demise.

“A _month_ you said? They’re overdue, how’s that possible?” they asked, eyes moving to look at Sam and Dean and Sam and Dean, back and forth over and over as if trying to catch them in a lie.

“You see, my spell has an _expiration date_ —One month tops and the person drops dead—or rather coughs and bleeds to death, no easy feat here.”

By now Dean was aware that Amilya must feel the panic rising steadily within him, already reaching far up in his throat and eliciting the very possible fear that he might just as well drop dead himself not managing to save Cass from something he was to blame for.

“Good for you that you found a way to pause the curse, though I bet it won’t hold long.

“That’s right,” Dean spoke, feeling no further aces up his sleeve but the gun in his hands, “Which is why we need the cure, _now_.”

“Ugh,” they sighed, hanging their head low causing the mess of brown hair much more akin to a bird’s nest to cover their face, “I should have _never_ allowed Yael to borrow my spell book in the first place. Would’ve spared me a lot of trouble.”

They looked up then, eyes narrowed to slits even though the expression screamed of silent hints of grief.

“I take it Yael’s dead then?”

Sam next to him gave a weak nod, still trying to follow the witch’s life story getting thrown at their heads even though they just wanted a goddamn cure.

“The book?” Amilya asked.

“Burned with them,” Sam replied, voice still levelheaded and calm, “They set themselves on fire after we shot them.”

“Ah,” the chair gave a creak as the witch shifted in it, further sinking against the harsh wood digging into their shoulder blades, “Sounds like them.”

Amilya’s stare was still and empty for a while, fixating a point far away.

“They were my apprentice. My responsibility. Should have never allowed it to happen.”

The brothers kept quiet, lightly concerned by the witch’s constant changes in behavior and, as if on cue, Amilya straightened back up with a weak, sarcastic chuckle.

“Dead’s dead,” they stated, matter-of-factly, “Guys, sorry to disappoint you, but the cure isn’t just a spell and— _poof_ —your _whatever_ is saved.”

“ _Friend_ ,” Dean interjected and noted how the witch just gave a slight twitch with their head as if that further proved their theory.

“Exactly,” they merely replied, foot scraping against the wooden boards, “There’s only _one_ cure. One, single method to cure said person and in most cases it’s impossible to acquire. Oh, in addition to a spell, obviously.”

Amilya added on the last sentence as if that would change anything.

“I can, very well, give you that. But it won’t change a thing.”

The smirk lining their face after saying those words alone set Dean’s fury into motion again.

“Your lovely _friend_ will die—slowly, painfully—and you won’t be able to change that.”

With raised fists Dean ripped his arm free from Sam’s grasp, barreling towards the witch bound and shackled in front of them and grimaced in a mixture of satisfaction and horror when his knuckles collided with their face, drawing a loud crack and groan that filled the silence of the room. Blood, dark crimson trickled down Amilya’s nose in a heavy stream, running over the curve of their lips and down their chin as the witch ceased any kind of movement but their slow, controlled breaths.

“ _Dean_ —“ Sam’s shocked, horrified exclamation fell on deft ears as Dean only heard his own blood pulsing in his ears so loudly it drowned out any other sound he would have usually picked up on. His heart beat away in his chest with an intensity that rivaled a drum-solo while his breathing was torn and ragged as if he had just returned from the marathon of a lifetime.

Amilya’s eyes were closed while their head still hung back from the unexpected force of the punch. Dean only watched as their lips parted, drop of blood slipping inside their mouth, before a truly, honest to god defeated and disappointed sigh came from them, eyes opening and glowing purple.

The atmosphere around them seemed to change within the blink of an eye, former feeling of control leaving without a single trace as the plants around them started to move, the flame residing in the melting candle started to flicker.

With a sway of his steps gravity started to shift, invisible weight placed on top of Dean’s head causing him to tumble and fall flat against the floor boards scraping his arms and knees in an attempt to soften the fall. Beneath his body the wood started to creak ominously, cracks appearing in the dark, rotten wood and Dean felt all air leave his lungs as he got pressed into the ground with a force that seemed to attempt to merge him with it.

A groan from Sammy to his side told him he was in no better condition and he grunted and huffed and puffed, willing his arms and legs to move and work, but to no avail. Shackles fell to the ground with a clatter and Dean watched through black spots starting to cloud his vision, how the person previously bound to the chair rose, rubbed their wrists and stood to glare them down with intense eyes and a confident grin.

They spoke, nothing like the seemingly innocent and sweet voice they had heard before but instead dismissive and cold,

“You should’ve ran when you had the chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That goddamn man had the guts to look you-know-who in the eye while he shot him—if Sam isn’t the definition of calm and collected in the most direst of situations I will probably throw hands, watch me.
> 
> I now officially declare purple to be the color of magic. I couldn’t decide and thought—oh Rowena glows purple—so there you have it.
> 
> Oh and I still don’t know how to write Dean. Oops.
> 
> I somehow love this chapter by the way. I love Amilya. Send help.  
> (They _literally _created themselves while I wrote this chapter, I have no idea what’s going on)__


	8. To The Rescue!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean find themselves at Amilya’s mercy, Cass and Rowena arrive to save the day and feelings are revealed (Part 1).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware the heavy angst? Yea. And restraints that _attempt _to squish Dean to death? Don’t worry, ain’t more than broken bones.__
> 
> Edit: Made a couple of changes considering Dean’s speech, nothing too extreme.

Dean blinked, trying to chase the spots of black dancing tango in front of his eyes away in a decidedly arduous attempt. Sharp agony jolted like lightning through his head as he tried to move, headache so severe it felt as if his entire skull was splitting in half and he squeezed his eyes shut to escape the pain.

Giving another jerk of his body he found the ropes to tighten even further, forcing a yelp to escape his throat as he struggled to breathe with his chest being terribly restricted. His eyes, narrowed in exertion, glanced downwards and found his restraints to not be as immovable as he had thought and instead discovered them to be vines; vicious green plants sprouting flowers at random intervals as they coiled around his torso, his legs, his arms and hands. Of no avail he tried to suppress the spark of panic welling within him as a vine wormed its way around his throat.

“Sammy?” he called in a hoarse whisper that sounded more like a grunt than actual English while he twisted in his restraints to search for his brother, “Sammy are you okay?” Finding him on the floor not far from him in a similar predicament he gave a lightly relaxed exhale; nothing on him seemed broken or bruised, there was no blood and he only seemed slightly disoriented at best. As if confirming Dean’s questions he gave a curt nod, the usual wrinkle of worry deepening on his forehead.

Still, Dean certainly couldn’t let his guard down now. He couldn’t die because then he couldn’t return to Cass with a cure to heal him from this damned curse; he couldn’t die because then who was left to help Sammy escape his own restraints? Dean held responsibility tightly in his grasp and he didn’t want to add two more faces to the pile of them already lingering in the back of his mind, doing their best to stay remembered by slipping into his consciousness. Under no circumstances could he lose this battle, because he could never bear to fail the two people he loved the most.

“Don’t bother.” The formerly sweet voice had turned dark, unfazed by the seemingly sudden shift in power causing Dean and Sam to sit tied up in plants against the wall, exit barely visible from their position. All of nature residing in the witch’s house was much more alive than it had previously been, practically radiating with force Dean was unsure he wanted to mess with. “The disorientation and heaviness you feel are the after effects of the hex bags that were in your pockets— they were almost beginning to burn holes into them, just waiting for my command. And those plants restraining you won’t let go unless I want them to by the way.”

Dean gave another grunt, not intent on giving up any time soon even as he pondered where he had gone wrong that it led to them being captured. Now that he was aware of Amilya’s abilities he realized that it wouldn’t have been difficult for them to slip the hex bags into their pockets through magic; perhaps even back when Sam and Dean had been in the forest with what _apparently_ were the witch’s little pet plants. Their guns were also nowhere to be seen and around him was nothing to be reached that could even potentially be used as a weapon to either defend himself or free himself with.

“Why wait so long then?” he asked, something akin to a smug grin pulling at his lips, “We’re hunters—you’re a witch. Coulda killed us right then and there and spared yourself the punch.”

Amilya lightly tilted their head, smirk curving their pale lips upwards while they stood from the wooden chair they had still been sitting on even though long since freed from their restraints lying abandoned on the ground. Joints popped as the witch stretched, still continuing to regard him with a look of full-on disdain and hatred.

“I wanted to see what you’d do. Like I said—I meant _no_ harm. I would have let you go, even with the spell in hand.” Their hands waved about as they spoke, wildly gesticulating as if teasing them for how easily they could have freed themselves from the shackles since the very beginning.

“I gave you a chance—you _failed_.”

Dean watched Amilya’s gaze shift from him to Sam, softening slightly while a look of regret crossed their face for the fraction of a second as they kneeled down in front of the younger brother.

“I really wanted to let you both live, you know? If not you than at least your little brother—“ While still directing their words at Dean, the witch’s hand made a careful move through Sam’s hair as he forced his head to look up despite the restraints— “He seems to show at least _some_ respect for someone much older and wiser than him.”

Dean’s sarcastic snarl pulled their attention back to him—exactly what he wanted as long as it made them let go of Sammy. “Why?” he asked, “How old are you, 27?”

They gave a grin, “About six hundred but thanks for the compliment.”

Amilya gave them no time to marvel or resent their age as they moved through the room with slow, deliberate steps, shoes hitting the floor purposefully with a resounding sound reminding the Winchesters of how their time was steadily running out.

“I’ve sensed you coming from miles away you see.” While passing the shelves they moved a hand to stroke the leaves of a plant; it seemed to genuinely be pleased by their touch, leaning even further into it. “I’m very in tune with nature; every wrong step of yours and I could feel it piercing my soul.”

“We get it Willow Rosenberg—“ Sam cast Dean a disapproving glance at his remark, eyebrows knit together, shaking his head as much as his restraints allowed. Amilya didn’t mind or didn’t understand his pointless reference and opted to ignore him, simply deciding to take an extra lap around the room in slow motion and Dean could feel his fury rise within. He felt seconds away from exploding pointlessly like a random vehicle in James Bond.

“The trees spoke of your arrival. You’re very loud, you know? Especially you, _Dean Winchester_ , stepping onto roots and plants and flowers left and right.”

He should have known Amilya would recognize them. They weren’t exactly the most anonymous people on the planet after all, considering they had caused and hindered the apocalypse, fought against monsters, demons, angels and even God’s sister—they most likely had quite a couple of high-staked bounties set on them by humans and creatures of all kinds alike.

“I almost feel like killing you just for trampling the flowers on your way.”

“I’ve had enough of flowers for the rest of my life, _kid_ ,” Dean spat back and immediately saw the look of recognition cross Amilya’s face in a sudden epiphany. In that moment he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth, if only to spare himself the confident grimace resting on the witch’s face.

“Oh yes,” they spoke much too amused by the reminder of their dire situation, “The curse thing, I remember. Wow, still can’t believe how that idea hit me. I think it came from someone making unnecessary advances on me despite my attempts to politely tell them off. That was—“ They were playing for time with every world slipping from their lips— “...About a century ago.”

Crouching down in front of a mostly immovable Dean with their arms comfortably resting on their thighs, Amilya couldn’t help but deepen their grin, eyes sparkling enthusiastically as their hair fell over their shoulder with a tilt. A petal dropped off and sailed directly into Dean’s lap, even though his glare remained solely on the witch in front of him.

“I couldn’t help but think that plants are much, much better than humans. And I thought, ‘ _Hey_ , why not give them a new habitat to reside within?’”

Dean almost wanted to gag, feeling the bile rise in his throat at the image of Cass writhing in his arms as he coughed up bloody petals, Dean clinging onto him to steady him while his friend only wanted to leave, didn’t want him to see how much a simple curse was affecting him.

“The _lungs_ seemed like a great place—‘love’ and ‘taking someone’s breath away’ you know? Sounded like a great punishment at the time.” Their voice seemed cheerful, much too cheerful for someone who pretty much doomed another person to die because of one dude being a dick.

“Actually,” Amilya continued, brushing their hair back in a single gesture, “I can’t take full credit for it though—hence the rune you probably saw. Got the idea from Japan. You know, buried deep in myths there was this little, tiny little urban legend about a similar condition called ‘ _Hanahaki_ ’. And what is magic for if not bringing fairytales to life, right?”

Dean once more felt the unmistakable urge to punch them square in the face rise within him and threatening to push through to the surface. They could only be glad for the vines holding him back, because a bloodied and perhaps broken nose would be the last of their troubles.

“What—“ getting the words to pass through his mouth was starting to be more and more of a struggle, vines slowly but surely pulling taut around his throat and his arms tried to move instinctively to relieve himself of the pressure around his neck even if his hands couldn’t reach them— “Do you mean—?”

A snort rang from the witch as they gave him a pitying pat on the head causing him to flinch. With a narrowed glare Dean watched as they jumped up and calmly pushed the chair they had been previously restrained on back to where it belonged to rest near a table.

“You know?” they asked, waving a hand with the aura of ‘everyone understands but you’, “One loves the Other and believes the Other doesn’t love them back. Yet the cure is for the Other to love the One—Oh dear, Shakespeare would be _proud_.”

They smiled and Dean weakly turned his head to gaze at Sam who bit his lip as if he was connecting something deeply within his mind—ever the usual, levelheaded and intelligent brother of course—Dean only managed to give a confused frown at their conundrum, though his incapability of understanding might be related to how shallow his breathing had gotten.

“Whether they only just believe the love goes unrequited or whether it actually does is completely irrelevant. You know? For maximum damage?”

Seeing Dean’s confused stare Amilya had the audacity to do a double take, placing their hand on their heart in feigned shock looking utterly dumbfounded.

“Don’t you get it? Your friend’s in _love_. The curse wouldn’t have worked otherwise.”

“He’s in love?” Dean frowned, struggling to say a mere sentence with no oxygen left in his lungs to speak and he strained his head skywards as if to collect his last reserves, “With whom?”

“Oh dear,” Amilya replied, hand pressed to their forehead in a grande, dramatic gesture, “Someone who he believes doesn’t love him back of course. Like I said. _Tragic_.”

“Why don’t you—“ Dean clenched his teeth, choking on his words— “Why don’t you come a little closer and I’ll _show_ you tragic.”

The grin on their face spoke of years and decades and centuries of experience in dealing with other people’s idiocy. Dean didn’t have the same knowledge to back him up regarding powerful, sentient entities that seemed to like seeing him suffer. Or perhaps he _did_ have, but nothing ever quite worked out well enough to be considered adequate to even try an escape attempt, especially not right now, with him having no weapons whatsoever at his disposal.

“You’re tragic enough as it is,” they spoke, “But thanks for the offer.”

The wheels in Sam’s head seemed to have finally come to a stillstand as he practically glowed with a conclusion and Dean could almost see the lightbulb popping up shining bright above his head.

“So you mean we’d need to find out who our friend’s in love with,” he spoke up, voice deliberately calm to not irritate the witch any further, which _apparently_ seemed to work wonders, “And that person needs to love him back.”

Despite being threatened with death, Sam was still thinking about how to save Cass, interrogating and treating the enemy like he would any potential witness while entering their home and donning his fake FBI suit and flashing his fake FBI plague; Dean felt as if he had failed as the older brother, useless in the face of anger and pent-up frustration.

“That’s right,” Amilya replied. Dean watched Sammy and noticed how the vines restricting him were much more slack than his own, not nearly close enough to hinder the blood to freely course through his body—like Dean’s restraints were attempting, “Along with a spell that needs to be spoken together. But like I said—more often than not—the cure just doesn’t work. You can’t force feelings out of necessity and often people are right with their hunch.”

Their eyes seemed absent as they plucked a petal from their own hair, twirling it in between two fingers before letting it drop to the floor in front of Sam and only now did Dean notice that there were literal, if tiny flowers stuck and growing in the witch’s hair.

“So no hard feelings for when you die—You wouldn’t have been able to save him either way.”

The air seemed to grow heavy even before Amilya raised a hand, clenching it into a fist and at once the vines around Dean tightened. He scrambled for breath, writhed against the restraints, heels digging painfully into the floor along with his nails trying to dig into something, _anything_ they could grasp onto even though they mostly uselessly fumbled in the air.

Sam’s cries in the background vaguely broke through to Dean as the rush of blood through his veins was the only thing filling his ears, noted Sam struggling in an attempt to break free and help him, trying his best to talk the witch out of killing him yet to seemingly no avail.

Everything felt as if he was underwater, drowning with the liquid filling his lungs and leaving him unable to breathe or talk or scream, it felt as if he was caught in a scrap press—him stuck in the middle between walls wishing to form him into a small, metal cube as they drowned out his pained cries. The sounds of his rips cracking along with multiple other bones in his battered body breaking was the last straw as a cry finally lodged itself out of his throat which throbbed heavily with the blood trying to pulse past the bindings, leaving him to only choke out bits of crimson that spilled down his chin and onto the floor.

His vision was failing him, he knew, yet it wasn’t death he was afraid of, but rather the knowledge that he had failed. If he died now, Sam and Cass would most likely die along with him. Sam would be forced to face the witch alone while already in their grasp and possibly get killed off as a second, Cass would die without the knowledge of even just a possible cure reaching him in time, wondering why the two weren’t even coming back to him—perhaps Rowena might have even found a solution to circumvent these idiotic conditions, perhaps Sam could have even helped in creating the right spell.

But _now_?

The darkness began luring him in much more quickly that he had anticipated.

——————

Footsteps pounded against the forest floor as the two sprinted through the woods in a hurry. Rowena was much faster on her feet than one might have suspected with her interest in fancy dresses and high heels—just like the deep royal purple one she was currently wearing—but in this case it seemed like Cass had more problems in following behind. Like Rowena had predicted, the spell seemed to slowly but surely wear off, grace within Cass strumming weakly like a chord seconds before snapping in half whenever he called to it for help. His forehead was still too hot and when Rowena had checked his temperature by pressing her palm against it, she had said it was ‘certainly warm enough to properly fry an egg’. His vision was blurry at best and he felt so lightheaded Rowena had to sometimes pull him back on track as she ran along beside him, hands wound around his arm in an attempt to get him to move.

By the time of their arrival in the forest it had already been evening again, his days of being partially freed from the curse coming to an end and he could literally feel his time running out deeply within him. The cottage came into view soon enough and the pair wasted no time in bolting through the entrance, Cass with his angel knife in a fierce but clammy grip and Rowena with a spell book at the ready.

The door got slammed open with such force that it ripped off its hinges as the two stepped inside, radiating an aura so fiery and adorned with the sense of cosmic powers that the three residents of the hut involuntarily shrunk back. Castiel’s eyes scanned the room even though he almost tripped over his feet as the fever wore him down, raising his knife as he took a step forward and almost immediately fell.

“ _Dean_!”

He wanted to rush forward seeing him on the edge of consciousness, vines tightly wound around his mostly limp body putting pressure even on his throat, but Rowena held him back; Cass could only watch as Dean’s mouth opened in a silent scream of incomprehension and confusion, droplet of blood running down the corner of his mouth as he fought to acknowledge Cass’ presence even though his eyes were seconds away from falling closed. With a twist of his arm Castiel tried to reflexively free his grip from Rowena’s steely grasp, but he lacked the strength and ended up almost falling instead.

“Amilya,” Rowena simply addressed the witch, pulling their entire focus onto her. How she still appeared that confident and powerful was beyond Cass as he was forced to watch the encounter, watched Rowena and the witch circle each other with glares spitting pure hellfire. Castiel, despite his abilities being under fierce lock-down, could still feel the imminent and palpable power radiating from the being that looked like an ordinary human at best—even if someone that hadn’t slept in a couple of weeks as evident by the messed up brown hair, baggy clothes, dark rings under brown eyes and their general tired appearance.

Opening the book in her hands with terrifying precision Rowena read a passage out loud, immediately regaining eye contact with the witch as she stretched out her hand towards the Winchesters. With a sizzling noise echoing through the room the vines began singeing, going up in purple flames before turning to dust right in front of all of their eyes. The strange witch in modern clothing made some sort of annoyed noise in the back of their throat, still staring at Rowena as if wanting to just up and leave to get out of this mess. A strong gasp came from the side and Cass’ focus was right back on the Winchesters, Dean spluttering blood and giving a shuddering breath as his restraints fell in the form of ashes when he moved, jacket rustling at his desperate attempts. His breaths could be felt by Cass even though he was perched on the other side of the room far out of his reach; every shallow breath of his another stab into the angel’s heart. He should have never let them leave without him.

Sam, positioned near Dean in a similar predicament looked oddly fine, eyes slightly reddened and teary but the no doubt panicked expression he had carried earlier eased as he gazed at his two friends readying to defend the brothers, before scrambling up and towards Dean, eyes on the witch in case they decided to do anything out of the ordinary.

“ _Rowena_.” The snarl radiating through the voice was no longer a veiled threat, “How brave of you to come meet me in my home. You’ll find I’ve grown much more powerful over the years.” With a wave of their hand and a silent whisper a vine emerged from the ground pushing through the wooden boards and caught onto Sam’s ankle. The sudden grip sent him back to the floor in an instant, out of Dean’s reach while the latter still weakly writhed and wheezed, vines moving like snakes around his wrists, binding them to the ground.

“Oh darling, I surely don’t doubt you,” Rowena gave a forced laugh, eyes flaring violet along with her hand—a simple show of power but definitely effective—having no doubt watched Amilya’s attempt at having the upper hand by re-restraining the Winchesters out of the corner of her eyes, “But I grew as well.”

“I don’t doubt that either,” Amilya held their head high despite one strand of hair dangling right in front of their eyes—brown eyes which contained a slight hint of confusion if not surprise. “I knew you’d come,” they finally continued on, glance and smirk formerly reserved for Rowena turning perplexed in a moment’s notice as it flicked to Castiel, “Though I didn’t see him. Not a human I guess?”

“I’m an Angel of the Lord,” Castiel declared, voice set in stone to appear perfectly emotionless even as the only thing of current importance to him was Sam and Dean’s condition, tone returned to that of the fierce and loyal warrior he had once been prior to his rebellion. And with the initial cause for his rebellion right in the room with him needing immediate assistance—the only people he would _die_ for without further question being in pain because of the being standing in front of him—he was ready to bring about hell. With a subtle movement he twirled the Angel Blade in his hand, showing just a sliver of the abilities he held as a soldier of the heavens. The faint light from candles still burning away being on the edge of dying out added to the faint, first rays of sunlight filtering into the room packed to the brim with plants and cast a mysterious glow on the celestial being.

“And I advise you to let the Winchesters go.”

“Should I feel threatened?” Amilya grinned, not at all impressed and Castiel had no idea how to reply to that. Seeing Rowena’s disapproving glance from the corner of his eyes told him that he’d rather not at all.

“Either way, what are you doing here? Playing cavalry?” Amilya took a few calculated steps never refraining from staring them down, moving like a cat advancing on its prey. “Or, _wait_ —“

Once more Amilya seemed to have found a revelation they deemed necessary to pull everyone’s focus to by pointing at the angel standing before them in a grande gesture, Castiel with a light sway in his posture not looking nearly as dangerous as he would have hoped.

“You’re the _Lover Boy_ , huh? The one that’s been cursed?”

Despite Castiel’s struggles to properly stand he couldn’t help but cast a glance filled with curiosity at both witches, Rowena countering with similar confusion while Amilya’s turned from surprise to a grin to sudden laughter.

“Sorry to tell you the same thing I’ve told your _friends_ —But you’ll die! The cure is almost unattainable and cannot be forced.

While the two witches were busy circling each other, apparently only interested in pretending to have the upper hand, Cass felt Rowena’s steel grip loosen and he took it as a sign to stumble towards the brothers. Amilya, to his surprise, let him be. Even though he could feel their stare burning into him for a couple of seconds before loosing their focus. His head felt so heavy, way too heavy by the strain it took to merely walk over to Sam and Dean, foot stepping on a couple of petals strewn across the floor before coming to a halt in front of the younger Winchester. In the midst of crouching down more out of exhaustion than of his own volition, Sam’s voice made him halt.

“I’m okay,” Sam hastily spoke, nodding his head to appear more sincere even though he was lying stomach first leaning on his elbows and lower arms on the floor, vines holding him in place still wound around his ankle, “Go check on Dean!”

Cass gave an affirmative nod back and stumbled over to Dean without further thought, dropping to his knees beside him as if the last bit of life was leaving him right then and there, simply at assessing Dean’s condition. Like a broken toy the hunter sat on the ground, lips slightly parted for shallow breaths to come and go, green eyes nearly closed but looking at him through light lashes with so many emotions Cass almost found himself troubled to place them all. Ever since he had pulled Dean out of hell and rebuild him, ever since what he had called their ‘profound bond’ came to connect the two of them on a level scarcely created before, Cass was able to read Dean better than anyone ever possibly could. Thus he felt the hope, the agony, the grief and the joy all residing within the gaze of the righteous man sitting before him being shared through their bond.

“Cass—,” he spoke, voice weak and broken and he wheezed out a cough soon after through his throat freed from the vines thanks to Rowena. Castiel moved, placing his hand on Dean’s chin to inspect his condition, gently touching the red, blue and purple bruises grazing his skin like a spec of darkness does the light, feeling his light stubble rub against his fingertips as he moved his thumb to brush away the drops of blood staining his chin and the corner of his mouth. A light wince escaped Dean upon the touch, momentarily clamping his eyes shut in pain before meeting Castiel’s gaze. Blue met green and Dean caved, averting his eyes to look down, pulling at the vines’ grasp that just wouldn’t let go even as Cass tried to slash them with his angel blade to which another simply took their place and wound itself around Dean’s wrist even more fiercely than before.

“We still don’t have a cure,” he rasped out. Castiel could feel how the words hurt him to speak, to admit to, and he watched as Dean bit his lip to distract himself from the pain he felt on the inside, “But you can’t die, okay?”

“Dean—“ the angel interrupted his rambling, his thinly veiled plea, sorrow dripping from his own voice as he placed his other hand on Dean’s face as well, practically cradling it in his grasp. His head weighed heavy in his hold as Dean’s strength started to leave him, but being addressed made him look back up and into Cass’ eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” Castiel said, leaving his lips in a firm line after the last spoken syllable, focusing all his attention on the feeling of Dean leaning into his touch, the sincerity with which he gazed into his eyes; ignoring how his own body seemed to desperately hold onto the remnants of the potion, how his insides burned as if set on holy fire.

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me, but _you_ —“ He concentrated on his palm, yellow light starting to radiate from it in a desperate attempt to heal Dean, in a desperate attempt to work around the curse clutching on his grace. Yet merely a few sparks emitted from his skin, not enough to even heal the scratch one of the vines had inflicted on him and the simple try only made himself writhe with the heat radiating inside him.

“Shut it,” Dean spoke in a harsh whisper making Cass blink in surprise, “It does matter. It matters to all of us. It matters to _me_.”

Castiel wanted to contradict him but that wouldn’t have done anyone any good. Instead he opted to let Dean’s honest and sincere words soothe him like a balm would a wound, feeling—if not sensing—just how much those spoken words meant for the both of them.

“Great,” Amilya’s voice tore through everyone assembled, catching their collective attention as they threw their hands up in an almost defeated gesture, “And now? We can stay here forever; Rowena and I, glaring each other down while I create vines she burns in an instant, and you—“ In a wide motion their finger pointed at the three broken figures on the floor, as if accusing someone in curt— “Slowly but surely dying.”

In a twist of events they snapped, holding a finger into the air.

“Or, _or_ —You try the cure. I don’t really care if you live or die as long as this is _finally_ over. And then I can at least see the spell in action, so—.”

Everyone stared at the witch as if they had grown a second head even though Cass could feel that all they ever wanted was peace and quiet—Sam and Dean most likely tore them out of it and they weren’t exactly grateful for the intrusion, a sentiment most people could surely understand. Amilya shook their head in exasperation and the vines around Dean’s hands receded, causing said man to immediately try and reach up, holding onto Cass’ collar with all the strength he could muster. The angel moved and held Dean’s wrist in place, eyebrows drawing together and blue eyes narrowing as the hunter seemed almost frantic despite his already weakened state, leaning closer as if wanting to share a secret—or inquire one, for that matter.

“Cass—“ Dean began, visibly grasping onto the words he wished to say and Castiel could clearly read the emotional hurt in them, tilting his head in an attempt to have a better look at his soul to attempt to understand his reaction, “Cass, the curse—“

A cough tore through Dean’s no doubt battered throat thanks to the vines previously restricting his breathing to the point of internal damage and blood dripping down his chin.

“Who—who do you love?”

The question threw him off track.

“Excuse me?” he inquired, head tilting even farther to the side.

Did he hear that correctly? What was he supposed to answer to such a question and what prompted Dean to even ask such a thing? Dean’s eyes darted around Cass’ face in a narrowed gaze, searching for answers in his expression which only slightly managed to slip from set in stone upon letting the words sink in.

“Dean, what are you referring to? I—“ Cass faltered, pondering the question even though he knew there was no real use to try and avoid the obvious, “You both of course. You are my family after all and—“

“No,” Dean interrupted, pointing his gaze upwards as if fondly annoyed, if not desperately collecting strength for what was about to come and Cass immediately moved one hand from his wrist to steady his head, “I mean, who’re you _in love_ with?”

“...Do you refer to how you have been in love with Lisa?”

Cass hoped not. If this was about the curse, if this was the only way the curse could potentially be broken then Castiel wished he could stop talking altogether. Because he knew the answer, he had known for a while and he had loved before he had even been aware of it. Because he could never possibly love another person more than the one currently sitting before him, looking at him with so much hurt swirling in his green eyes that never failed to remind Cass of nature, of freedom, of the security of residing within the Garden of Eden.

But Dean didn’t seemed to reciprocate. His interest was mostly based on sexual nature Castiel didn’t understand, as well as targeted towards women, and he had never seen Dean truly love anyone more than he did Sam as a brother either, which didn’t exactly leave room for many other possibilities. And if love was a necessity for the spell to work, he didn’t want to enclose in his feelings. He could never allow for Dean to feel like he failed merely because he didn’t return what Cass felt; that was something far out of anyone’s influence after all, something that couldn’t be forced.

He bit the inside of his cheek waiting for Dean to continue.

“Yes, no—“ Dean halted mid-sentence after initially giving a wince, clearly remembering things he didn’t want to ever think about again. Yet somehow he also appeared to try and find a way to better explain the situation to Cass and only managing to sound as if he himself was unsure of the extent of love he had felt for his previous partner. “Kinda, if that helps.”

“I—“ Was lying the best of all available options? Cass wasn’t sure. He certainly didn’t want to lie again, especially not whenever Dean was involved. After all the time they had known each other, Castiel knew just how much truth and trust and loyalty meant to Dean, and lies were one of the reasons why their relationship had taken so much damage over the years in the first place. But telling him the truth only to die could potentially break him and he didn’t want that to happen, not under any circumstances.

“I don’t know—“

“ _Cass_ ,” Dean interrupted almost fearfully and the angel knew it was because they were running out of time, “There is someone, we know it. The curse only works if you’re in love, so just tell us so we can try and help.”

“Dean, I _can’t_.”

The words seemed to accidentally have frozen Dean in place for he sat motionless, only his eyes darting to look around Castiel’s face while his grip on Cass’ collar tightened ever so slightly, knuckles white despite the splotches of crimson staining his skin. Castiel’s insides seemed to combust at the guilt, the terror and the fear he could feel radiating from Dean; emotions he could often feel from him that the man never admitted to even when Cass asked him how he was feeling.

“Cass,” Dean said, eyes pleading, “Please.”

He couldn’t help but avert his eyes, finding Dean’s eyes too piercing, too deserving of the truth resting on the tip of his tongue and just praying to be finally spoken after years of waiting. People were often talking about the perfect moment to admit to such feelings, Cass knew because he had heard of many instances in which this was an important topic; from his time as a human in which he had been roaming the streets with nothing else to do but observing humanity in addition to staying alive, to watching a series on TV all alone or together with his friends and family.

This—right here, right now—didn’t exactly scream perfect moment.

Dean clutching onto Cass, hands buried in his clothes and every little cough helping in spreading even more red on the trench coat and white dress shirt that were still lightly bloodied from back when he had coughed until the darkness had claimed him. He was certain that Sam had tried to get some of the splotches out while he was unconscious, judging by the slightly wet patches that had remained after he had awoken. How should now be a good moment when he was literal minutes away from dying, how could now be a good moment when Cass admitting to his feelings had a high chance of multiplying the guilt Dean had already burdened himself with?

“Please, Cass,” Dean choked out, pulling himself even closer to Castiel who let go off his wrist and head to properly lay his hands around his back to keep him upright, “Just tell me the name, I’ll do what I can to make her like you—even with your lack of taste in music and all. I promise.”

His facial expression shifted to a forced smile that looked much more like a grimace streaked with desperation while he was talking and Cass felt his own resolve vanish at Dean’s attempts to cheer him up in spite of the pain coursing through his body thanks to the broken bones Castiel couldn’t heal. His mind blanked and he only focused on _Dean_ , _Dean_ and _Dean_ ; his voice, his face, his touch.

“Just give me the name, I’ll manage.”

To avoid what he liked to refer to as ‘Chick-Flick’ moments no doubt, Dean gave a little chuckle and added on, despite tears clearly lining his reddened eyes he stubbornly refused to let fall, “Even if I’ll have to punch it into her head. I won’t fail you, I promise. So, _please_ —“

The angel’s fingers tightened their hold on Dean as he closed his eyes, battling his inner demons as if making a list of pros and cons on whether to tell him. Because, certainly, the cons were colored a deep dark red not unlike the blood red petals stuck in his body, while the only pro would be stopping Dean from asking.

“ _Cass_ ,” Dean started up once more, eyebrows drawn together yet a weak, bloodied smile graced his face, “Don’t make me beg—it’s _embarrassing_.”

The resolve crumbled, walls breaking down and Cass felt terribly selfish as he opened his mouth, voice just as broken and quiet as he answered,

“It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? A cliffhanger? And on feelings too? Weird? Who did this, I wasN’T—  
> Please appreciate my attempts at weird references, it’s one of the reasons I can’t write Dean, I DONT UNDERSTAND ANY OF HIS REFERENCES.
> 
> ALSO feelings are difficult for me and I had to revise this so many times to make sure it’s not too out of character? I kept wondering bc our boi certainly has problems talking to anyone that isn’t Sammy (and even that’s not always easy apparently), but someone that means a ton to you about to die right in your arms?? I mean, come on Dean.  
> (Also he’d totally assume Cass likes a girl, am I right?)
> 
> And also?? Cass?? If it weren’t for the fact that I want to write a Happy Ending for once I’d almost be certain he’d take his love for Dean with him to the grave. I think Season 6 (that I unironically _love _) is a good example for that—Oh hey, let’s just lie to them because in the end they’ll be safe, yay! Who cares about the consequences should they ever find out!__  
>  _Everyone does, Cass. Everyone. ___
> 
> Hope you like this chapter cause it’s over 6k words long and took me a long time, haha! ;)


	9. Just Hold Me Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of emotions, they try the cure and, well, the entire chapter is pretty much JUST EMOTIONS?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware: Blood and Angst AND just remember the happy ending, yeah? Next chapter it will all be okay, I promise (Everything else would be a spoiler my friends).
> 
> By the way!
> 
> _ONE MORE CHAPTER TO GO. _This will be the end. I can’t write endings. I will try.__

_What_?

Dean’s pulse seemed to race through his body, blood pumping through his veins with an intensity more fit for running a marathon that sitting in bloodied clothes on a bloodied ground and listening to Cass speak what might be his last words.

“What?” he repeated, not sure whether he heard correctly over the shock causing white noise to fill his head attempting to tune out anything but the questions doing somersaults in his mind.

“It’s you, Dean,” Cass repeated, voice as set in stone as it could possibly be yet filled with so much emotion it was hard for Dean to grasp, “It has always been and it will always be you.”

Dean felt himself stiffen in Cass’ hold as he wasn’t sure how to react, didn’t know what to think or whether to even believe what he was being told.

 _Him_? No pretty woman after all of them that would give themselves to the angel in a heartbeat? Of all people, all angels, even demons and other creatures in this world he would willingly choose _him_? What even was there about him, that made him special enough to attract a celestial being’s attention in the first place? Every single of the very few relationships he ever had broke of quickly, and every hookup he had—which were certainly too many, causing them to blur together and leaving him to not even remember more than a handful—couldn’t exactly be deemed a relationship and wasn’t exactly something that made him well knowledgeable in the topic of love either.

“I’m sorry,” Cass spoke up, guilt wrecking havoc in his face, his eyes, his voice—Dean held on tighter, “I didn’t want to tell you. I know you already burden a...unhealthy amount of guilt on you even though you shouldn’t. I didn’t want you to add this.”

“Cass I—“ he was trying to understand, really, he was. But a revelation of this scale had about the potential to throw anyone out of the loop, especially now that he was in pain because of his body feeling like a shattered glass screen, mind utterly unable to function, “...I-I don’t—“

“It’s okay Dean.” Cass’ voice was calm as well as calming—nothing to show that he was perhaps minutes away from certain death. “It’s okay, really. I understand.”

“No, Cass, you don’t,” he faltered, momentarily closing his eyes to try and make sense of it all, “I know you mean a lot to us, to _me_ , I just...I—“

“I know you once said that I’m your family,” Cass conceded, apparently not at all afraid of what rejection meant for him, blue eyes still sparkling at him with patience and understanding of all things, “Sam, you and I are family, we—“

“No—“ Dean’s voice echoed through the room by how quickly he interjected, desperate to explain what it was he felt for Cass, even though baring what he was thinking felt like stoking a fire resting on low fuel within his soul to enormous amplitudes until it would inevitably devour him whole. Nothing remotely desirable at that, unless one liked feeling like any prop in a Mad Max movie, ever. “It’s not that, it’s- it’s different. I just don’t know how—“

The angel’s hands on his back felt warm, comfortable. A grounding weight in a situation that spiraled so much out of control, it was difficult to see anything that happened as real. Cass’ eyes were glowing blue as they pierced him in an intense but patient stare—that _goddamn_ idiot had the audacity to be so terribly relaxed; Dean not returning whatever he felt would be his death sentence. In a way this was a typical situation for Dean to find himself in, wasn’t it? Cass halfway in the arms of death and only _now_ did Dean start to think, desperate to figure something out he had fiercely neglected for years, always pushed further away to deal with literally _any_ other time. All these apocalypses and other creatures trying to take them out—and not in the fun way, mind you—certainly didn’t help with him finally taking his time to contemplate his life and feelings.

Did he want to fling himself at Cass like he did with his Hook-Ups? No. And if Dean was honest, he had the feeling Cass didn’t want that either. The angel had never seemed particularly interested in anything regarding sex—Dean clearly remembered bringing him to that brothel the day before they went to face Raphael, remembered the clueless holy being, dressed as if he just came from a particularly boring job in administration, looking anything but comfortable and relaxed even though that was exactly what made Dean pursue such localities in the first place.

Well, much to all of their collective surprise there had been that one time with that reaper, April. Judging by the shock on Sam’s face, Dean hadn’t been the only one in thinking that Cass wasn’t interested in these kinds of things. At the same time he hadn’t seemed all too enthusiastic either while being asked about it—Dean would have slept with her because she was hot, while Cass had only smiled when he had said she was kind. And how a reaper that had killed him could be described as _kind_ of all things would be anyone’s desperate guess.

That aside, if you’d ask Dean whether he saw Cass as a brother, the answer couldn’t be yes either. Despite how close and connected he felt to the angel—calling him family and even brother on one occasion—it just didn’t feel quite like it did with Sam. He would _never_ stare that intently at his brother, never wish to hold him so much he found himself fighting with himself to not let a simple touch on the shoulder linger for longer than necessary or similarly crave every instance in which Cass either healed him or simply wanted to offer comfort. But calling him his best friend didn’t exactly feel nearly enough even though it was the closest he had gotten to describing what he felt, and lover felt too much connected to intense and romantic emotions and responsibilities Dean wasn’t sure he had ever truly felt the need for.

After all this time he wondered if he was simply broken, if the thought of a life living in a house with a white picket fence seemed unbearable to him because of his time in hell or because the time as a hunter had destroyed him completely, smashed the glass that was Dean to pieces and buried the shards all over the world. But perhaps that was just how Dean was. There was no shame in not craving a significant other to do all that lovey-dovey Chick-Flick stuff with, right? No shame in simply wanting to be with someone because their very existence calmed you like nothing else ever could, because not being with them made you feel as if you lost a limb or a part of your soul? Because being with them made you feel whole in a way nothing else would ever manage to...? Right?

“You mean...a lot to me,” he began in a whisper as if raising his voice would destroy the depths of emotions accompanying them, as he tried to see through the raging tsunami of thoughts conflicting and crashing into each other in his head, “Lisa—I stayed with her because I made a promise...you know I’ve never been happy living that life. I- I’d rather have you than anyone else.”

He tried, he did. He didn’t know how else to express what he thought and having simply said so much already made him feel terribly vulnerable. The way Cass gazed into his eyes with wonder and concern told him that he could clearly see that and for a moment he managed to completely forget about their predicament at all. There was simply Cass holding onto him, Dean clinging to Cass, both of them existing while the rest of the universe was nothing but idiotic distraction Dean could very well live without.

“Dean—“ Cass had the faintest hint of a smile on his mouth as he opened it to speak, and Dean was abruptly pulled back into harsh reality when nothing but blood came out of him as he started to cough. Dean was sure he wasn’t the only one looking at him with horror, momentarily completely frozen in place as realization took ahold of him. Despite the broken bones screaming with even the tiniest movement or the weakest breath, he forced his battered body to crouch, opting to ignore the agony tearing within as his hands moved to press against Cass’ back while the angel writhed against his chest. The blood splattered against his clothes, seeping through and feeling searing hot on his skin and his mind went wild.

“The spell!” Dean yelled over the top of Cass’ head which was tucked under his chin, piercing the witch with a stare that only spoke of frantic panic, all traces of rage gone for the moment by the mere thought of losing Cass, “ _Please_.”

Oddly enough this little word seemed to have done the trick. Amilya, for all that was holy—who had been on the verge of wishing to rip off his head just a couple of minutes ago—appeared to have a full 180 change of heart upon hearing Dean’s broken voice. With a wave of their hand and a whisper dropping from their lips, the vines around Sam’s ankle started to recede until they pulled back into the cracks left behind in the wooden floor boards. Amilya pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of their black jacket and waved it for the younger Winchester to pick up with a movement that seemed almost impatient, but the look in their eyes screamed of something akin to being caught in heaps of terrific flashbacks. In lightning speed Sam bolted upright with a light stumble and rushed to the witch, giving them a little customary but grateful nod as he took the folded piece of paper in his trembling hands.

There was a little pause in which the witch didn’t speak and Dean was seconds away from storming up, reaching for Amilya’s neck and strangling them where they stood with their faraway look, eyes looking almost glazed over staring at the wall instead of Sam calling for attention. Only Cass’ breathing that seemed much too strained and much too wet as blood dripped down his chin in thick, dark clumps forced Dean to stay, forced him to keep holding onto the angel for dear life as if that would keep either of them from falling apart. With a shake of their head and a more than visible shudder of their spine, Amilya finally opened their mouth, apparently having regained the ability to speak.

“You need myrrh, dandelion roots, a four-leaf-clover, aconite and one of the petals,” their voice was oddly strained itself, calculated almost, while at the same time a token of them not quite being mentally present as they motioned to Cass struggling to breathe with a nod of their head, “Mash them together with mortar and pestle—upper cupboard to your right.”

While Sam moved to where Amilya had pointed, collecting the things in nothing short of a panicked hurry while the witch resumed their gaze to vaguely rest on Cass and Dean on the floor with what Dean hoped wasn’t some sort of wicked sadism—because then, if he’d survive this ordeal, he was certain to tear that damned witch to shreds—Dean’s only focus resided on Cass, placing a hand to the side of his face to steady him in his raging breaths that tore Dean’s heart in half.

What should he do? Would the spell work? Was what he felt enough to save his life? Another hack wrecked Cass’ body and Dean’s hands tightened around him, holding him with a desperation evident in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his trench coat that screamed of never wanting to let go. One hand reluctantly moved to tilt Cass’ head up, to force him to look Dean in the eye. At this moment, while the world felt like it was crumbling to dust right around him, he wanted nothing more than to see the life still residing within eyes reminding him of the vastness of the ocean, of crystal waves crashing against the shore, of the freedom that was the sky.

Below the blue was a sea of red, Cass’ entire mouth painted crimson, red and bloodied petals barely distinguishable from it as they were half sticking out between his teeth and lips, resting on his tongue. He obviously strained to not cough, eyebrows drawn together creating creases on his clammy forehead in agony and exertion as he gazed at Dean with sorrowful, blue eyes.

If there was one thing Dean couldn’t live with it was losing him. He couldn’t imagine waking up and him not being there, not being _anywhere_. Whenever Cass had left the bunker, Dean could at least hope that he was out there somewhere, wearing his suit with the fake FBI badge Dean had made him years ago, doing his best to solve cases and help people to the best of his abilities. Dean had already lost him more times than he wanted to count but he always miraculously reappeared. They couldn’t bet on miracles though—not every time, for the one they did, he was sure to never return. The Winchester Curse only waited for so long, after all.

“You have about five minutes,” Amilya spoke up so suddenly, Dean gave a wince. Once more the urge to punch in their face, to feel their bones crack beneath the force of his blow, to make the witch suffer as best as he could manage threatened to devour his entire being. He had learned a lot in those damned 40 years of staying in hell, things he never ever wanted to think about again, but to take revenge for their god forsaken curse, he would certainly throw all of his principles out of the window.

But they spoke without a single trace of a smile left on their previously eerily smiley face, nothing in their face screamed of joy—instead Amilya looked like they had seen a ghost. Their gaze had thoroughly fixated the broken angel from afar even though Cass couldn’t, for the life of him, acknowledge their stare nor presence as he clutched onto Dean, coughing up petals and blood with sounds that burned Dean’s ears as he listened. Listened to every little groan, every little whimper coming from someone that had never once failed to radiate with such powerful energy it could make everyone run for their lives in seconds—everyone but Dean, who would look Cass into the eyes knowing that he would never willingly hurt him.

The meaning of what Amilya had said suddenly struck Dean like a gunshot to his heart. “Five minutes, then he’ll die. Make it count.”

Cass was looking up at Dean as if trying to burn his face into memory, as if accepting the fact that he would die. And the only thing Cass seemed to believe was that he had burdened Dean with the knowledge of his love, burdened him with the belief that Dean had potentially doomed him, even though nothing could be farther from the truth. Because Dean would never let any of this happen. Even if he had to tear the world apart at its seams, he wouldn’t, under any circumstances, let Cass die.

“Dean—“ Another try that ended with blood bubbling up his throat and running down the corner of his mouth, one bloodied petal getting spit out in a desperate attempt to free his airway enough to let him talk. “I need you to know that none of this is your fault, and—“ He swallowed, momentarily averting his eyes before looking back with emotions swirling in his eyes so intense that it twisted and tore at Dean’s insides— “And I love you.”

One of Cass’ hands rose in shaking movements, finding their way to rest near the base of Dean’s neck while the hunter was still busy trying to understand just how much simply hearing those three words meant to him, being much too fazed as the shock and disbelief probably read like words written on his face.

“I love you more than anything.”

In the background one could still vaguely hear the sound of Sam mixing ingredients and squishing them together, noises of struggles emitting from his throat as the pressure of time threatened to crush him. One of the candles nearby cast an orange glow on the angel breathing weakly in Dean’s arms, making him look ethereal even more so than usual, despite being covered in blood that steadily dropped down his chin into a puddle on the floor littered with crimson petals.

In this moment Dean realized that he didn’t care about what Cass looked like, that he would always recognize him. Dean realized that he would always know it was him by the aura he radiated, of graciousness and power, adorned with unconditional love for the one soul currently cradling him in his grasp. Recognize him by the way his eyes always seemed to pierce into Dean as if peering right into his soul. In this exact moment Dean realized that he would always love the angel in front of him, whether he was an angel, a human or anything else; he would always love him more than anything.

He realized that what he felt had to be enough because it was the most he had ever felt.

Intent on sealing his newfound revelation and making Cass regain his hope for the possibility of getting cured, his hand moved to hold onto Cass’ face, leaning in and pressing a simple kiss to his forehead. He let the touch linger, letting the warmth radiate through both of their bodies, warmth and what he declared to be the no doubt morbid existence of butterflies swarming around his stomach even in this abnormal situation, twisting his insides in anger, fear and love. So many things coursed through his mind and the calmness he felt upon the gentle contact made him wish to not ever let go. It felt so pure it almost—if in a deranged way—reminded him of purgatory. A place in which emotions were raw and real, a place in which he first subconsciously questioned the extent of his feelings for the angel, knowing that he would have stayed behind in the wannabe back room of hell for forever, if it had given him the ghost of a chance he would find him eventually, find Cass and bring him back home.

The light contact of Cass’ skin below his lips was simply _pure_.

“You mean...a lot to me,” Dean tried to force out what he felt in a low voice only meant for Cass to hear as he leaned his forehead against his, closing his eyes for a moment to help in imagining the feeling of being in purgatory, the feeling of being able to confess everything circulating in your head freely without any care in the world for possible consequences

“And I love you.”

Perhaps he was broken for not feeling like any normal person seemingly would. But with Cass in his arms he didn’t feel broken, not in the slightest. He _couldn’t_ possibly be broken when Cass was with him, when the angel was staring at him with wide eyes filled with nothing but unconditional love now that they separated and Dean properly looked at him with the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips that still tingled from the previous contact.

“You—“ Another splatter of blood and Dean didn’t care that half of his shirt was already drenched in it, hands simply continuing to hold onto him— “Dean, I—“

He gave a weak grin despite the situation. “Trust me.”

——————

Sam almost stumbled over his feet as he carried the little bowl over to the two, broken figures on the floor; Castiel noticed him catching himself in the last possible second.

The fire within him threatened to consume him whole, feeling as if being forced to consume molten angel blades the only thing remotely close to describe the agony he was in. But hearing Dean say those words—those words that Cass knew took him all of his willpower to admit, words that Castiel felt more than anything to be the honest truth—had the benevolence of cooling the lava trying to force itself out of his already battered throat. He felt like suffocating on the rock turned magma clogging it, but it was worth seeing Dean’s eyes finally shine with understanding and Castiel’s very own happiness upon seeing Dean like this pulled him through the pain rendering him immobile.

He would willingly take any love Dean would offer him, any kind. He would give himself completely to him as long as it would ensure they got to stay with each other, as long as it would make Dean happy, keeping a smile on his usually so war-torn face. And if all of that was too much, remaining his friend was always an option for him, too, for his mere presence was all the angel ever felt he needed.

Reminiscing in the feeling of Dean’s lips against his forehead made him feel all the love both of them felt pouring through their profound bond; and immediately Cass trusted Dean’s words, trusted that they would be okay.

Sam slid to a halt next to them still holding onto each other, bowl under his arm as he held onto a set of matches in one hand and the piece of parchment with a spell waiting to be spoken in the other.

“Here,” he spoke hastily, pushing the parchment into Dean’s grasp while he placed the bowl next to them on the floor, “Amilya, can you tell us what to do now?”

Once more torn out of whatever trance the witch had found themselves stuck in, a sigh escaped their throat with what was most likely supposed to represent exasperation, even though Cass could feel it was drenched in years of regret and guilt—emotions Castiel himself was very well versed in which made him lose more of the former rage he had held onto upon finding them to have hurt Sam and Dean. At the same time Castiel felt the fondness they clearly felt for Sam, something that screamed of memories clouding their head with someone who reminded them deeply of the younger Winchester. Apparently Sam had once more managed to charm his way into the enemy’s heart at least enough for them to be considerate of their actions and instead attempt to help.

“They must speak the spell at the same time, hands on the bowl. Set the bowl on fire before they start. But don’t touch it yourself, it might mess up the the cure’s aim.”

With time running so dangerously close to the end—Cass was counting, according to Amilya’s previous estimation one minute and 47 seconds were left—Dean helped in guiding Castiel’s trembling and bloodstained hand to rest on the rim of the little copper bowl, Dean immediately resting his next to Cass’, fingers brushing against each other and helping in keeping the angel grounded. Castiel tightened his grip, fingers clutching tightly onto the metal feeling cold beneath his burning touch and he felt literal seconds away from fainting.

“Cass,” Sam spoke, quickly moving a reassuring hand on his shoulder as Dean readied the paper to a position both of them could easily read from, “You’ll feel better soon, okay? Just hold on, please.”

The angel couldn’t help but give a weak nod at Sam’s calming enthusiasm, spitting out another petal to the side and for a moment focusing solely on the blood trickling down his chin. Agony swirled within him so intense that Castiel felt as if he was going numb, bringing about a sensation akin to when he was human and hadn’t moved in a while, something Dean called having ‘pins and needles’ in their limbs—which did sound about as terrifying as it felt right now. But in contrast to the idiom Dean had taught him, whatever was happening inside of him now did indeed hurt as much as the choice of words presumed and had the additional potential to actually kill him.

His hand moved to hold onto the other side of the paper as Dean had positioned it for him to see. Sam gave a small affirmative noise hanging heavily in the air with the suspense of not knowing whether the spell would actually succeed, before he lit the match and let it drop into the bowl, fire roaring up in a rush. With the flames dying back down as soon as they had risen, red and blue puffs of smoke emerged from the ingredients Sam had crushed, rising from the now dimly glowing flames and swirling around them, merging and turning deep shades of royal purple.

They began the incantation, the urge to cough or even sleep having never been more prominent than this exact moment as his eyes focused through the steadily growing blur, focused on the words which were moving on the page through sheer exertion. Latin rang thickly in everyone’s ears and Castiel found his attention constantly wandering to Dean, drinking in his low voice that tried to desperately sound calm even though it trembled in panic, brushing his finger resting on the bowl against Dean’s in an attempt to calm him. It was difficult, truly difficult for him to not break off in the middle of the sentence to rest, to curl in on himself and let the curse take its course. Contrary to popular belief, angels _do_ need to breathe, so the fact that he hadn’t gotten any oxygen into his lungs in the past minute was troubling at best, terrifying at worst because the air left within him was running out to speak the necessary incantation. The world dimmed, growing dark, dark, even darker while he counted the seconds in his head, numbers running below ten as they finally got to the last sentence.

And with the last syllable spoken, Cass up and collapsed in Dean’s open arms.

Just as Castiel had hit the hunter’s chest he wanted to jump back up, terrified at himself for his insolence and ignorance of Dean’s clearly broken ribs and the grunt Dean gave upon catching Castiel hurt in his ears and only strengthened his resolve. But he couldn’t move. Everything felt heavy, his body felt like lead and he couldn’t even open his eyes that had fallen close as soon as Dean had caught him, darkness completely clouding his vision making him feel on the verge of death and for a moment he couldn’t help but wonder, if the witch had given them the correct spell in the first place.

“Cass?”

That was Dean’s worried voice, layered thick with pain of his own and panic ringing right in his ear. He felt Dean’s hand brush down his hair and rest on his neck, felt his breath ghost the top of his head. Cass’ hammering pulse thrumming in his veins started growing faint, the blood pumping through his heart going still—he couldn’t respond. His mouth just wouldn’t open. The words just wouldn’t form.

“Cass? Talk to me, are you—are you okay?” Not waiting for an answer a hand moved to his wrist, to his forehead, his throat and near his mouth, fingertips weakly grazing his skin as Dean assessed Cass for any kind of sign that he might be alive as he laid immovable in Dean’s arms, senses only focusing on him. Focusing only on the one person he loved. It felt almost poetic to him, dying in Dean’s arms much too similar to the movies the hunter declared to hate with a burning passion.

There was a sudden pain stabbing his body like an angel blade to the chest mixing with the numbness he felt within and he immediately lurched backwards, almost out of Dean’s grasp. Still, his reflexes were trained to almost perfection after years of practice in hunting monsters and he caught Cass by his arms before he could manage to collide with the wooden floor. Fingers curled into worn fabric and attempted to pull him close, but Castiel had lost all control he previously had over his body and writhed in Dean’s hold, trashed and twisted and turned, scream lodged on the inside of his throat with the petals stuck inside literally taking his breath away. He vaguely heard Sam’s shout, screams directed at Amilya asking whether this was their desired outcome.

But Cass didn’t manage to even hear a sliver of a response before he completely numbed to the world.

——————

After a moment of silence tearing through the air sharper than a knife through skin, Sam and Dean sprung into action. Hands clutched Cass’ shoulders as Dean shook him in a desperate attempt to elicit a response, Sam hovering next to him and once more going through the motions of checking for life, as if Dean himself hadn’t already checked quite a couple of times himself.

“Cass?” Dean called, eyes narrowing as they roamed over Cass’ broken face twisted into an eternal display of agony and pain, “ _Cass_?” With every call that went unanswered his voice grew more and more desperate, the force he used to try and shake him awake more and more intense as the limp body rocked back and forth in his grasp. This couldn’t be happening, this wasn’t allowed to happen. Sam and Dean had both been sure that it would work, had told him he would be okay. Dean’s hands moved to hold Cass’ face, holding him closer to himself as he took in the angel’s closed eyes, dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks as they had fluttered close in his fight against death. One single eyelash laid fallen out closer to his nose and Dean gently brushed it away with his thumb. If he had believed in this bullshit, nothing would have stopped him from ripping our every single of his own eyelashes to wish for Cass to wake, but after all they had gone through and all they had seen, they would have long since known if there had just been a single shred of truth resting behind this myth.

A touch on his shoulder broke him out, Sam’s hand on his shoulder making him turn and look into a face contorted with grief.

“Dean...” Sam spoke, and not much more needed to be said as his younger brother shook his head, eyes brimming with tears.

The stench of iron mixed with flowers hung heavily in the air, poisoning nature’s good reputation by combining the two together. Cass was limp in his arms and Dean didn’t have a single care for how his rips screamed with the added weight; not when Cass was dead in his hold and he only further pulled him in, tightening his arms around him. This couldn’t be happening, not for anything in the world. He couldn’t have failed him, not after all they had gone through. Despite his steely resolve he could feel the steady trickle of tears running down his face, down his sweaty and grimy skin after all the stress and panic and anger and grief. He could feel his eyes burning even as he cried, eyes still brimming with more tears which he clearly still tried to hold back as if anyone in the room would actually give a damn.

Sam next to them reached out with his hand, letting it hover for a couple of seconds before placing it on Cass’ shoulder. It was shaking, Sammy’s hand was shaking badly and as Dean looked up through a vision clouded with tears, he saw them collect in Sam’s eyes as well, freely rolling down his reddened cheeks. For as long as he could think, Sammy had never been afraid of crying when the situation called for it, when the emotions simply overflowed and left him with no other choice; and so his face was contorted in pain and grief while his body shook with quiet sobs that echoed through the otherwise silent cottage in the middle of a forest.

His eyes remained unfocused, caught up in his mind. He felt the rage starting to bubble up within him and tried his best to not let it consume him. After all it had been his uncontrollable rage what had brought them all into this mess in the first place—at least the god forsaken witch had said so. There were many things his rage had caused to fall into chaos, the latest thing certainly punching a much too powerful witch square in the face so much they bled and definitely broke their nose. But honestly? How could that have been his fault? They certainly weren’t exactly _not_ asking for it—threaten his family and you’ll easily find yourself as his next target.

Even despite all his attempts to not give in to the certain death that would be rage, he couldn’t help but direct it towards himself either way. Dean had been presented with so many chances to keep this train from colliding with a wall made of steel. If he had just _once_ in his life dared to pay enough attention to how Cass was behaving, had just _once_ noted the obvious pain making him act far more reserved than usual, instead of falling prey to his gently spoken ‘I’m fine’s he liked to throw around like confetti on a parade...then perhaps they could have all went together to find a cure and they wouldn’t have been under such drastic amounts of time pressure weighing them all down.

But now here they were, Rowena looking at him with a look that screamed full-on pity, the witch who created the curse in the first place looking far away as if torn apart by images of war, Sam tugging at his hair in an attempt to keep the tears at bay and Dean clutching the lifeless angel in his arms, hand moving absentmindedly to brush against the nape of his neck as if he might come alive at any given time, as if Dean might suddenly feel a weak pulse strumming against his fingertips from below the angel’s skin. As if Cass wasn’t truly dead and just resting, and perhaps—with enough lack of sleep and the complete loss of his mind—he could tell himself that this was indeed the case.

Amilya gave a slow, steady exhale once they snapped back out of whatever stupor they had been in, head bowing as their previously hostile demeanor faded with the weight of an entire room’s worth of grief. Their shoulders drooped alongside their eyes and they bit their lip in silent contemplation.

“I didn’t create this curse with angels in mind.” The words resounding from them sounded much more pained than anyone in the room would have ever thought possible. But Dean was far from listening. His entire mind was filled with _Cass_ ; with how Dean could have prevented it all, with what pain Cass must have gone through, with Cass’ dead body in Dean’s arms. It was all _Cass_ until it wasn’t and rage started to fill him like white, blaring noise. A part of him tried to bite it down, because they had already lost Cass today and fighting against a powerful witch now would only put Rowena and Sam and Dean himself in danger.

Dean couldn’t give a damn about who Amilya had lost that made them this way, wouldn’t give a damn about their reasoning.

Revenge was a familiar concept in the Winchester’s book; not a single person had been spared from it. There seemed to be something about punishing the ones you thought had wronged you, some sort of morbid sense of control that came with eradicating someone you had declared an immediate threat, an immediate reason for your sorrow and anger. Hunters were the ones that had wronged Amilya. Hunters were the ones that claimed their best friend’s life and hunters were the ones that came storming into their home in the middle of the night and restrained and punched them and threatened them with death. And, _hell_ , if Dean couldn’t understand the sentiment!

But he didn’t care. Because to him it was a witch that created the curse, a witch that cursed Cass and a witch that apparently didn’t even have a functioning cure. Dean didn’t give a flying fuck that he got hurt—shit was practically in the job description—but the mere reminder of a witch having doomed Cass to such a bloody and agonizingly slow death surely made Dean want to eradicate a bunch of witches himself.

“Everything you did was correct...ingredients, pronunciation. The time hadn’t yet run out either and—“ Amilya continued on but Dean didn’t look, didn’t listen; quietly seething as he bit down on his lip, drawing blood— “Your feelings sounded genuine. I’ve never- I’ve never thought I’d hear or rather _sense_ such intense emotions. All these centuries and I had given up on the concept of love—hence the curse.”

Honestly, every word spoken by that witch only made Dean angrier, but he vaguely realized that it was completely irrelevant what they were saying for their voice if not presence was enough to send him to wishing to rip them apart.

“Even though it wasn’t me that cursed him, and even though I know you couldn’t care any less—I’m sorry.”

Dean knew that the words, no matter how genuine they might have sounded, weren’t capable of reaching him, of doing anything besides amplifying the grief he felt and feeding the rage he tried to swallow that was currently more akin to a fire growing out of control. Because no sorry could ever help in retrieving his angel from the dead, the one best friend he could have ever had, he could have ever _loved_ , lying limp and bloodied in his arms. Cass’ head was heavy against his bruised and battered chest, against his broken ribs as he held him close, carefully tucking Cass’ head back to rest beneath his chin and pressing the broken angel into him as much as he could, refusing to let go. Cass’ weight against him was the only thing keeping him from storming up to a suicide mission in trying to take down the witch himself.

Love could be so terrible when it was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words have been spoken, I repeat: The words have been spoken!
> 
> WHY IS THIS SO LONG AGAIN I SWEAR TO G O D I’M RAMBLING SO MUCH.
> 
> Dean is such a difficult character to grasp for me?? His range of emotions has always been a gigantic enigma, and I decided to kind of write him as someone that has some trouble with romantic aspects of love? Call it what you will, this Fanfic is all about accepting who you are no matter if / what labels you use.
> 
> Weirdest, most useless thing ever, okay? But I was listening to Watershed and I just wrote ‘The Winchester Curse only waited for so long, after all.’ and got to ‘after all’ at the _exact _moment they sang it—__
> 
> _  
> _I guess that Cliffhanger is even worse than the last._  
> _


	10. Ten Years Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All’s well that ends well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for this chapter’s title and the few lines written in italics at the end go to LED Zeppelin. The song’s real nice, give it a listen if you like!  
> (Same goes with Supernatural of course, not mine!)
> 
> And this is the last chapter. Have fun!

He could feel it. Slowly, carefully, like the steady flow of time—the curse separating itself from his grace. Like a snake deciding its prey wasn’t worthy enough to be devoured after all, the cure worked on relinquishing its hold. And although Castiel couldn’t feel more than that, he knew he wasn’t dead. Even though the darkness drowning him in an ocean of pitch black felt eerily similar to what he knew about the Empty, the fact that he felt something from Earth, namely the curse residing within him, told him that he couldn’t possibly be completely gone.

And there was nothing he wouldn’t give to be back, to be back with his family, to be back in Dean’s arms. He should have never told him; now there was nothing to say that he wasn’t blaming himself for what had happened. But even then, Castiel himself had been certain he wouldn’t die after hearing Dean’s response—in all his years alive, he had never once felt so whole. So filled with nothing but pure love and he felt almost selfish for thinking that it was a great feeling to finally receive what you had given for years on end. The other angels would certainly ridicule him for that, the fact that a single person’s feelings could mean so much to a being that was created to be a simple warrior, created to be above it all. But then again, his so-called former ‘family’ couldn’t miss what they have never had. Thus they could never understand why he would willingly go through every single of his recurring nightmares again—curses, mind manipulation, destruction of heaven, death—as long as it meant ending up at Dean’s side.

Soon voices started to fill the empty space he was residing within. Little, silent pleas sounding broken and mournful and quiet as if spoken, whispered directly into his ear and he wished for nothing more than to reach out and comfort them, to assure them they would be fine. But his limbs felt bound, restrained or perhaps even severed. As if he had no connection whatsoever to what was clearly apart of him, or at least had been since he took residence in Jimmy Novak, the vessel that no longer contained a soul.

Soon the voices turned more and more into noises he could comprehend, as he felt the unmistaken sound of forcefully kept quiet sobs ringing right in his ear, as he felt the rumble of a chest against his body and a sharp intake of a breath from in front of him, felt the gentle but desperate touch of a hand on his back and neck as if he was still being in someone’s hold.

Soon his senses returned and he was hit with a smell, odor of sweet plants and the foil stench of iron penetrating his nostrils—along with a smell he had come to know as Dean’s. A combination of leather, gunpowder and remnants of alcohol, mixed with a faint hint of the apple pie he so loved to eat; it didn’t exactly sound like anything special, but it was everything to the angel. Unconsciously he pressed himself further into what he believed to be the hunter holding him, trying to get as close to feeling alive as possible and in response he thought he noted the hands around him holding on tighter as well.

“...Cass?”

With a sudden sharp intake of air of his own tearing through his hurting lungs he opened his eyes, feeling himself finally snap out of the coils of the curse; felt its venomous hold snap as easily as a broken string and his grace rushed through his body with a strength that made him curl into a ball against Dean’s chest. His _grace_ —which had been suppressed for far too long—coursed through every little part of his body and he felt the heat radiating from its attempts at mending his broken form, felt as intensely as never before the paths it took to reach every single cell, sensed how each individual part got repaired to its previous condition. His lungs felt as if a weight was placed on top of them as his grace rushed to heal what had been destroying them in an entire month’s time. But soon its urgency receded and finally being able to properly breathe again felt overwhelmingly satisfying—it wasn’t called ‘taking something for granted’ for no reason after all.

“Cass, are you—“ the voice resounding low and comforting in his ear broke off in a choked sound, a desperate swallow of the lump formed in his throat— “Are you...alive?”

In a slow movement filled with nothing short of wonder he pulled back a bit to properly look up, gazing into green eyes brimming with tears, some of which were still running down reddened cheeks, pooling amidst the beard stubble on his chin before dropping to the floor. There were still remnants of the blood trickling down the corner of Dean’s mouth which was pulled into a surprised expression of utter disbelief; the crimson a testament to the agony he must have still been in, simply holding Cass so close, simply breathing. Every intake of air rattling broken bones. Finally having regained control over his body, Castiel raised his hand to cup Dean’s cheek, never once refraining from staring into his eyes, the mere touch of Dean’s skin sending soft sparks dancing through Cass. With barely any effort his hand began glowing and in not more than a couple of seconds the hunter’s injuries were gone, faded as if never having been there in the first place.

“Hello Dean,” Cass finally managed to speak and seeing Dean’s eyes light up would never be surpassed by any other sight in the world.

The relieved smile that finally managed to pull at Dean’s lips despite the tears caught Castiel in a grasp that almost again managed to restrict his breathing—even though he now knew it had nothing to do with a curse whatsoever. He couldn’t help himself as he let his other hand rest on Dean’s face as well, wanting nothing more than to touch him to assure all of this was real, that it wasn’t just some dream he had conjured for himself to survive an eternity caught sleeping in the Empty. But it simply felt real, so real.

His thumb gently traced Dean’s jawline, watching green eyes morph from initial surprise to a fondness he almost never saw coming from the hunter—only in the rarest of moments when he actually felt content and thought no one was looking. The knowledge of having elicited such a response merely through his touch threatened to spin Castiel’s whole world as he simply relished the moment.

“Look at us sharing such a cliché Chick-Flick moment, huh?” Dean whispered with a chuckle only for Cass to hear, attempting to sound mocking of their closeness even though Castiel knew Dean craved it as much as the angel did himself. But in an unfamiliar environment with three other people silently observing their every movement Cass didn’t mind, letting his hands gently brush against Dean’s arms before falling to the side. Immediately he was enveloped in a tight hug, hands pressing against his back with so much desperation, with so much relief. Castiel let his chin rest on Dean’s shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a breath that smelled of Dean.

“We thought we’d lost you,” Dean continued, voice quiet and filled with emotions, with love, “I thought _I’d_ lost you.” They separated and Dean gave him a pat on the arm as if they hadn’t just declared their love for one another mere minutes ago. “Don’t scare me like that again, Cass, you hear me?”

Castiel could only give a small smile at that.

——————

The bright happiness mingled with utter shock still radiating within him, ever since first hearing the angel take a breath after being declared dead, couldn’t be compared to anything he had ever felt before. Sure, eating a burger after coming back half starved from a hunt was certainly nice and listening to LED Zeppelin while driving his Baby certainly made his heart feel much lighter, but this right here and right now? Must be the absolute jackpot. Winners of the lottery had no idea what they were missing out on as he cradled the newly revived angel in his arms, more than anything relishing the mere knowledge that he was alive and well.

He hadn’t been aware that a mere hug could feel that great, even as he barely managed to separate himself from Cass if solely for the purpose of finally getting the hell out of the witch’s den before they could change their mind and re-curse them or anything of the sort. The anger he had felt directed at the witch had at least managed to decrease, considering they apparently _did_ give them the right spell. Still, he definitely ought to get the hell out of their home, because staying here just a little bit longer and he couldn’t promise not trying to kill them dead. His rage was only outweighed by the sheer joy at the fact that Cass was back, and only for this fact alone would he hold back on the incredible urge to charge headfirst into battle—only to make sure that his anger wouldn’t senselessly put anybody else in danger.

Sam, fine as he could be with maybe a lightly scraped knee or perhaps even twisted ankle sat next to them, motionless. His eyebrows were drawn together into his usual expression of concern, but his mouth was up in a bright smile, teeth flashing white.

“Sam,” Cass addressed him, and Dean watched as the angel immediately reached out with his hand, placing it on Sam’s shoulder, warm light glowing from his palm before whatever pain his little brother must have had receded. With only a bit of hesitation remaining in his movements—no doubt coming from a place of surprise—Sam reached forward and pulled the two of them into a quick but fierce embrace, pressing them into his unfairly gigantic form with all the energy he could muster, strength only doubled by all the fear he had felt upon thinking he had lost them. The both of them reciprocated with equal force, clutching onto Sam with relief that felt palpable in the entire room. Not soon after his little brother let go, wiping the remnants of tears staining his cheeks away with a little laugh.

Dean almost couldn’t believe that his family had pulled out of this alright, that they had managed to circumvent the curse without dying in the process, never mind Dean’s new understanding of the depths of emotions he held for who he had for years called his best friend.

“I see your cure _did_ work after all,” Rowena addressed the witch with certain hints of newfound lightness in her tone as she watched the three of them rise from their crumpled up positions on the floor, collecting themselves to leave. In response Amilya brushed a hand through their hair, an almost sheepish smile on their lips soon turning to a grin. Dean tried to not let the falling petals get to his mind as Cass placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “You did grow a lot over these past centuries—“ And because it was Rowena who spoke, who apparently loved to use other people as bargaining chips, she added on— “But I do hope, my _dear_ , that you consider the debt I owe you as paid. Otherwise the Winchesters and their little guardian angel might just decide to run you through and I will gladly offer them my assistance.”

Those were certainly not words he expected from the redheaded witch who they had, after all, once _not_ been exactly friendly with. Surprisingly the threat seemed to have an effect on Amilya as the grin fell from their face, but then again: The Winchesters weren’t known for nothing.

What just happened hours before? Slip-up, nothing more. _Totally_. A lack of sleep and the pressure of time. Now that Cass was fully charged and ready to go, as well as Rowena with one of the most powerful spell books known to date resting in her hands at their side, they could surely take Amilya down. And Dean wanted to, somehow. Something inside of him—the need for revenge that ran in his bloodline—wanted to take them down, once and for all. Cass’ grip was the anchor keeping him grounded, keeping him from giving in to an urge he had hoped to have lost since his days with the mark of cain burned into his forearm had passed.

Amilya seemed to contemplate before giving in with a roll of their eyes, a hand to their forehead in disbelief. “I recognize a threat when I see one—“ No _shit_ , Sherlock— “Fine fine, debt’s paid. Now be so kind and ‘ _leave the premises_ ’.” The words left their lips in a groan and the little air quotes only added to their initial annoyance. Rowena owing you a debt must have been a valuable ace to have up your sleeve; too bad it was gone now. Down the drain like the blood they had forced Cass to cough up.

Dean wasn’t sure whether he should keep holding onto his rage; somehow he felt like he couldn’t quite let go. Not after their earlier laughing when they had said that Cass couldn’t be saved. The hand on his arm kept him anchored whenever his mind blanked for a second, only a single blink of an eye away from storming forward to deliver what probably wouldn’t quite manage to be the witch’s final blow; and with every look at Cass—noting the latter’s pure happiness at still being alive—he managed to hold it back a second longer.

In a way, he guessed, he understood where Amilya was coming from. Possibly. _Maybe_. Besides, even if he’d decide to go all Hulk now, not a single person in the room would benefit from it. His priority at this moment was clear: taking Cass and Sam, throwing them into the car and moving the hell out of this shithole called a forest quite an hour’s drive away from home. The earlier they’d hit the road, the earlier they could start laughing about this entire thing instead of despising the beginning of it all—also, much to his relief, Cass didn’t seem to be too mad. There was something akin to light anger in the way his eyebrows scrunched up on his forehead when he skeptically stared at Amilya, but he didn’t appear all that hellbent on a fight.

Catching Dean still looking, Cass turned, hint of a smile on pale lips only ensuring Dean that Cass was feeling much better than he had in quite some time. And considering that rage was what made the witch go all out on them in the first place, he’d rather for once try to swallow it down instead of letting it out—even if it felt completely against his nature. Even if it felt like swallowing pins and needles. Cass was happy. Sam was safe. They were alive. That was all that counts.

“So,” Rowena spoke up, briefly folding her hands in front of her body clad in ridiculous amounts of royal purple. She then made a shoo motion when nobody moved, gesturing towards the door torn wide open after they had barged though it earlier, and Dean caught Amilya give a light pout of all things. “Let’s bring you boys home.”

No one felt up to argue. With all adrenaline having fled his body—especially after it had been clarified that there wouldn’t be a fight—Dean now felt the lack of sleep weighing heavily on his body more than ever before, practically tearing him down like shackles bound to his legs. Like lead, heavy enough to make him feel as if glued to the floor. But pride was a bitch, an important one at that, and he’d be _damned_ to be found stumbling out of this bloody shack. Not in hell, not if he could very well just bottle everything up and walk out of there in strides, head held high. It was probably really for the best that they just left, if walking alone was enough of a chore for the moment.

Sammy didn’t appear to be in a much better condition either. He looked on the verge of falling asleep and Dean remembered that he’d only really gotten any rest in the Impala on their way to the witch, and only an hour or so at most. And while Dean certainly was used to almost not getting any sleep whatsoever and running on the occasional coffee as well as pure adrenaline, Sam had adopted a healthier lifestyle over the last years, which meant he was probably _much_ closer to passing out than Dean.

On his way out, a sudden hand on his arm made him halt and he turned with narrowed eyes glinting at Amilya who immediately let go as Cass next to him pulled his Angel blade from his sleeve, pointing it at them almost close enough to scrape their throat. Amilya threw their hands up in a placating gesture, taking a step back making the wooden floor boards squeak beneath their shoes.

“Listen,” Amilya spoke oddly quiet, a faint grin that still held onto vague remnants of guilt spread on their face. Rowena carefully watched them out of the corner of her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay? I guess I should’ve known better after losing—“ They bit their lip in a quick motion to stop the thought— “I- I didn’t know your feelings were so...real. So pure. I honestly thought no one could break my curse, ever. Not until I saw you two.” Dean didn’t even have the time to feel embarrassed by their words as they snapped their fingers immediately to interrupt themselves, a gesture that didn’t even surprise him anymore. “But in my defense, you weren’t exactly an exemplary visitor, were you? My nose still hurts like _hell_.”

Only now did Dean cast a glance at their condition, actually taking it in. At their blue and purple nose still carrying splotches of crimson that had left trails in their wake the witch apparently hadn’t bothered to wipe away so far. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to care, even if he did indeed understand the sentiment of revenge. But once said revenge pulled someone from his _own_ family into it, it was _over_. “But don’t ever try and find me again,” they continued words grim even though the grin persisted, “Or I swear it’s the last you’ll do.”

Dean couldn’t help the smirk pulling on his own lips in response to their threat, as serious as the situation was. “Don’t go curse some rando’ people then. Or else we won’t go easy on ya next time.”

For some reason Amilya smiled back more sincerely, as if they hadn’t just been promising each other certain death upon their next meeting, but in that smile even Dean could clearly see just how genuine their earlier apology had been. Not that he currently cared about anything but getting the hell out of there and back to the bunker, because he was certainly in need of rest. Sammy too, and Dean just really felt the need to throw Cass into their home so that he would be far, _far_ away from the next witch to potentially curse him—apart from Rowena, but he felt like he could at least trust her farther than he could throw her, which was a first for a witch in his experience. Because _damn_ those witches, man. One was more than enough and don’t get him started on Sammy—even though he couldn’t help the pride at seeing him wrestle his way though books and spells until he could understand and recreate them to a T.

Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose as she gave a much too dramatic sigh, which at least managed to pull everyone’s focus onto her.

“Amilya dear, you are much too old to be arguing with a Winchester. And you boys—“ She turned from the witch to glance at the three people in question— “Out you go.” While Sam was the first to stumble onward, Dean vaguely noted how Rowena took their weapons back from Amilya, the two witches giving each other a look that was a pure mixture of hatred and admiration, before Cass pulled him along, shoving him outside of the house and into the woods. The chirping birds only seemed to agitate Dean as they trekked through the dirt and mud, the leaves and well, _well_ past the flowers— _god forbid_ Amilya could come back around and force their pet plants on them another time.

As the cabin faded in the distance, Dean finally let the need for rest overcome the earlier leftovers of his adrenaline, finally relaxing with the knowledge that they’d all be okay and soon to be home. Oh, if sleep wasn’t making the top of his list right now, he might just kill for a good old fashioned burger and some classic Western running on TV, sitting together with his family tucked safely into the secure bunker and—

“Well,” Rowena spoke up, interrupting Dean’s thoughts trailing off, “Neither of you boys are in any condition to drive. Perhaps it would be better if Castiel and I took it upon ourselves to drive the two of you home, aye? I wouldn’t want to end up in an accident because you two decided to fetch up on your sleep while sitting behind the wheel, yes?” There was some sort of soft smile somewhere in the way she talked, but Dean only managed a half hearted grumble in response while Sam next to him gave a nod.

“That seems to be an advisable approach,” Cass replied from next to Dean and not soon after all four lapsed into silence, standing in front of the two cars parked next to each other near the road. Baby glistened a perfect jet black in the early rays of morning sun, while Cass’ beige pimpmobile seemed almost comical in comparison—as dorky as the person who owned it no doubt.

“Cass, is it alright if Rowena and I take your car?” Sam spoke up, the first to interrupt the silence that probably emerged because of the grande question which was; who was even allowed to drive Dean’s car but Dean himself? Sam, sometimes, but Sam wasn’t allowed to drive right now—even more so now that he practically stumbled against Cass’ car stiffening a yawn. Without a spoken response, Cass snatched the car keys out of his trench coat, handing them to Rowena who in turn dumped all of their weapons into his arms and promptly turned around, unlocking the doors and making herself comfortable as she played with the seat, adjusting it to fit her small frame. Even though Cass was shorter than Dean and especially than his gigantic brother Sam, Rowena was undoubtedly much, _much_ smaller. It was almost funny how Sam had to duck his head as he entered the car, throwing himself into the passenger’s seat and sinking into it with a relaxed sigh that was audible even though the door was already closed.

“That alright with you, Cass?” Dean asked, looking at Cass as they still stood in front of the two cars, watching Rowena put the key into the ignition while Sam almost immediately fell asleep slumped against the window, little breaths fogging the glass with every rise and fall of his chest, “Letting Rowena drive your car I mean.”

Blue eyes pierced him almost instantly, head tilting lightly to the side as he regarded Dean with an intensity that once made him uncomfortable—as being the sole focus of someone easily tended to be—but over the years just turned into something that was so... _Cass_ , that he had no other choice but to accept it as a part of the dorky angel, even starting to come to like it. His gaze gave Dean some odd sense of purpose, a celestial being’s attention so directly resting on him.

“I doubt you would want her to drive the Impala,” he replied, matter-of-factly as he held his palm in front of Dean, apparently waiting for the keys, “Unless—“ he almost pulled back, hand twitching— “You don’t want me to—“

The sudden shaking of Dean’s head was almost intense enough to make his head spin in a try to interrupt him.

“No that’s not it,” Dean said, “I just didn’t want you to think you’d have to sacrifice your car—Sure you can drive Baby if you want.” But that almost sounded too sappy again even though no one else was listening, especially with the unsaid ‘Because I trust you’ lingering heavily in the air; but no one was dying and it felt too normal, too intimate, so he added a laugh and said, “But no scratches or this time’ll be the last.”

Apparently Cass could live with that because he started to smile, lightly so, taking the set of keys from Dean’s outstretched hand with a gentle movement that brushed his fingers against Dean’s skin before walking around to unlock the car, first throwing the weapons into the trunk before letting himself relax into the black cushions.

In the silence that spread over them like a comforting blanket, Dean noticed Rowena, having watched Dean with an odd grin and a wink before she gave a little nod directed at Cass who had turned to observe as well. The engine roared as Rowena finally made her way to turn on the street—obviously having waited for the two to finish their conversation—Cass following suit behind her as they sped through twists and turns, driving along the highway towards their home.

Despite the lack of sleep nagging at his brain and despite all adrenaline and remnants of caffeine gone, Dean realized he found himself unable to sleep. There was just so much running rampage in his head, he felt like the dirt under the hooves of horses in one of his favorite Western movies. As nice as these movies were, being trampled certainly wasn’t, and as he turned to look at Cass in the driver seat he found him already looking at him with a sincere and fond smile gracing his face.

“What?” he couldn’t help but ask, trying to sit a bit up after he had tried and slumped down in his seat.

“Your soul,” Cass replied, throwing Dean so far out of the loop he couldn’t help but avert his eyes for a moment to collect himself, marveling at the angel’s directness leaving him unable to properly respond, “It seems so much brighter than it had before, than it was ever since I met you. There was always this certain...doubt. As if you didn’t believe yourself to be worthy of anything that could make you happy.”

After so many spoken and heartfelt words, Dean couldn’t help but look back at him with his mouth lightly agape, staring at the angel in wonder. He hadn’t realized that this was still the case—that his self-worth issues were still a permanent part of his life. But apparently it was the truth. He had always known that Sam loved him, clearly. They went through so much shit together, never quite leaving one another behind no matter how much the other tried to convince them, or even if they tried to convince themselves to leave it all behind, they always came right back around as if they couldn’t live without one another. But they were brothers, born family connected through blood. Sometimes Dean felt Sam had no choice but to feel responsible.

With Cass it was always a bit different. At first he was just an angel, defying heaven for someone he had just gotten to know and Dean had never understood why anyone in their right mind would give up their home for one, single person. But now he understood that it was _love_ , of all things, that made him do it. It was love that prompted Cass to defy everyone and everything to throw himself into danger on every possible occasion just to shield the Winchesters from it, to shield _Dean_ from it. It was love that made Cass return no matter how often Dean had been a ridiculous asshole, and it was love that made Dean react with rage in the first place.

For it was love that made him feel enraged, absolutely maddened whenever Cass would feel the need to sacrifice everything and himself for the two of them, for Dean. Because Dean didn’t, under any circumstances, want to lose him. Because losing him always made him feel like he lost a part of himself and he felt completely unable to function without him by his side.

For it was love that continuously brought the two of them back together.

“But now it just seems lighter,” Cass continued and Dean had to remind himself that he shouldn’t space out with the topic of his thoughts right beside him, trying to talk to him, “Beautiful even.”

“Despite how tired I am?” Dean couldn’t help but muse to distract from how touched he was. Even though he felt his response didn’t quite make sense, but come _on_ , that’s what lack of sleep does to you, alright? Case in point. “I haven’t slept in days...All of that—“ he made a jerky movement with his hand, gesturing at his own face as if that would explain his jumbled train of thoughts— “Ought to rub off on my soul eventually, right?” The sincerity and _goddamn_ amounts of adoration dripping from Cass’ every syllable that he only now started to realize have always been there were just too much for him to handle and he couldn’t help the very intelligent stumble in his speech.

Cass gave a chuckle that aided in pulling Dean’s lips even further into a smile. “Despite everything, yes.”

The road was mostly empty safe for the two cars speeding along, barely any other people bothering to take this exact road during this time of the day.

“So you’re...feeling better now?” Dean asked. The lack of other cars only helped in relaxing Dean’s agitated mind, calming his heart and helping soothing him into a rest as the only sounds were Baby’s soft engine roaring and Cass’ and Dean’s faint breaths.

“I do,” Cass replied, casting a glance at Dean before looking back out of the window, “How about you? How do you feel?”

Dean honestly wasn’t quite sure how to reply to that. So much had happened it left his mind behind confused but enlightened at the same time, filled with the knowledge of the person beside him loving him with all he had and all he was, as well as knowing that he returned it with everything he knew. There weren’t many people in the world he would want to live for, since he himself knew he had a terrible preservation instinct and apparently a knack for sacrificing himself whenever the situation seemed dire. But Sam and Cass were his family, they were the people he never wanted to separate from under any circumstances, but would nonetheless in a heartbeat if he had to, only to save them.

“I’m fine,” Dean said, almost whispered as he thought about everything, “For real this time.”

He really hoped he wouldn’t have to separate from Cass anytime soon. Because right now, he felt himself to be happy. He was, actually, _much_ to his surprise, absolutely happy. Turning his head to stare at the angel in question he realized that he wouldn’t ever feel more love for someone, nor feel more loved in his life. With a glance back, blue meeting green the immediate feeling of hope and security enveloped him and he didn’t want to admit that he knew his own eyes were softening just while looking at Cass.

“Hey, Cass,” he spoke up into the silence, feeling like he couldn’t sleep before he hadn’t said anything. Cass tilted his head in response, patiently waiting while Dean collected his thoughts enough to form them into a coherent sentence.

“Thank you. For everything.” His hand went to scratch his neck as he delved into his thoughts, tongue wetting his lips to alleviate the dryness caused by anxiety. “For always being there for me—for saving me just now. I- I know I’m not saying this enough, I really do, but I...I’m really grateful for you always being there and...I couldn’t be more happy to have met you.”

That goddamn idiot had the audacity to look at Dean with such a gentle smile it made his heart stutter like a damned, good as broken record left behind on a record player. In addition to that, he stopped looking at the road for far too long only to look at Dean, it was a wonder he was still driving along the right lane and hadn’t yet swerved into contraflow. Relief left him in a breath when Cass returned to looking out of the window, even still with a smile that Dean had come to see much too rarely ever since they had met. The occasions in which he had smiled, Dean could easily count on one hand and he just now set himself to making sure to change that.

“You’re saying this as if I’m not aware of it,” he spoke, voice calm and gentle, “Dean, I always have and I always will do everything in my power to protect you—it’s my highest priority.”

When words rang so deeply in your being, resonating right with your very soul it was no wonder if you couldn’t be quite sure how to reply—just like Dean felt in that moment.

“And—“ apparently Cass wasn’t even done, Dean had problems to swallow the lump in his throat created by so many emotions he continuously tried to bite down on— “There has never been and never will be a single moment in my eternally long life that could be more beautiful than the day I have met you. I will always be grateful that I was given the chance to save you, that I fell, for you to show me what it is like to feel.”

Leave it to Cass to take a stuttered out declaration of your feelings and turn it into something straight out of a poetry book. It would be a lie to say that Dean wasn’t completely touched by his words, but then again, it would be a miracle for anyone to not be. He wasn’t quite sure how much of it showed on his face, but he was certain that his heart was seconds away from bursting just by how sincere and _sappy_ , in a way, Cass’ words were, by how much it meant for Dean to hear, understand, and also finally accept them as the truth.

The sun shone along the horizon, blazing rays starting to make themselves known which didn’t seem to bother Cass at all while he was driving. Pink and purple hues of the sky were turning into clear blue right in front of their eyes, few specs of clouds dotting it like cotton candy and for some reason it seemed absolutely mesmerizing to Dean as he glanced out of the window. Perhaps it mingled with the fact that he felt oddly safe and secure in his Baby next to Cass, felt calm and at peace while the angel was driving as he trusted him with every fiber of his being. It was truly a strange sensation, to place so much trust into someone, but after all this time spent together, mixed with the knowledge of all the secrets Cass had withheld from them being only to protect the person he loved, he decided to let it all go. Sam would certainly applaud him for this decision while Dean had always been amazed and concerned by Sam’s abilities to easily forgive and forget, never being one to easily do so himself.

But after all of this he simply had to. How could he hold this against Cass, if he, too, would do anything possible to save the angel sitting next to him, the angel that was currently on a long-ass ride in a car when he had once had his wings to fly with? That had gone through so much and continued to give, driving only to bring Dean safely back home?

Out of the corner of his eyes Dean noticed Cass brushing against something in the pocket of his trench coat, apparently looking for something. Dean shuffled, wanting to help before Cass accidentally _did_ manage to crash them into contraflow because of his distraction, and his hand only barely managed to brush against the worn fabric of Cass’ clothes before the angel finally found what he had searched for. And Dean’s voice stuttered even before he opened his mouth to speak. The look on Cass’ face was so relaxed, so fond—Dean would be lying if this hadn’t been part of his intention all this time ago, when he had pushed the damn thing into the angel’s hands. Slightly hypocritical to despise Chick-Flick moments and then pulling one yourself, right?

“Is that—“ But of course it was, Dean had eyes didn’t he? He would always recognize the little plastic casing, the carefully scribbled letters in ballpoint pen. The thing’s condition was as good as new and Dean wasn’t sure whether it meant that Cass never used it, or whether he took particularly good care of it.

“Yes,” Cass replied, idiot as he was, holding the thing out for Dean to take, “Thank you.” The hand continued to hover between them, patiently, and only now did Dean realize that he hadn’t moved, being expected to actually take it.

“No, Cass,” he put his hand on top of it, guiding Cass’ hand closed with the little self-made mixtape residing safely within, “Its a gift. You keep those.”

If the angel’s face had been bright before, it was nothing to how it looked now. Dude would blind him if Dean kept looking, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was part of Cass’ true form leaking out.

“Ah,” he made a soft noise of understanding, momentarily neither of them moving before Dean withdrew his hand, only slightly flustered, mind you. Apparently Cass had been keeping the mixtape in his pocket close to his heart the entire time, and if that wasn’t something to make one’s own heart burst with joy, then what was? “I see,” Cass continued, thumb stroking the case, “Thank you, Dean.”

The hunter grinned. “Feel free to put it in,” he said as if it wasn’t a huge deal for him, crossing his arms behind his head, “Bit of Zepp has never hurt anybody.”

And with a flick of a wrist—a gentle one at that—the first track was running silently in the background, drenching the car in music destined for only the two of them to hear. Dean knew it was only that quiet because Cass knew he was tired; without any doubt Cass would have spiked the volume if only for Dean’s joy at listening to his favorite band. This was nice. They should do that more often. Not the entire witch thing mind you; just driving in the Impala, relishing each other’s mere presence with a smile on their lips.

_Then as it was, then again it will be_

_And though the course may change sometimes, rivers always reach the sea_

The knowledge just how much space a person could take up in your heart was a frightening one indeed, and even though Dean wasn’t able to easily say those famous three words out loud, nor quite understanding just how much exactly Cass meant to him, he couldn’t help but think that it would all be okay.

Because he certainly didn’t need to find words to describe who he was. He only needed to accept it. And reaching over to Cass, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, brushing his hand against the hair on the nape of Cass’ neck for the tiniest fraction of a second before letting himself sink into the seat with his head against the window, he knew that this was alright. He knew that he loved Cass and this was enough for him to know, and so he closed his eyes, falling asleep to the sounds of the world rushing past him in a blur, the sound of Zeppelin painting the air with beautiful melodies, knowing that his angel would watch over him. A silent ‘I love you’ resting just on top of his tongue, on both of their tongues, as Cass unbeknownst to him watched him with all of the love he carried in his own heart; love for the soul that had saved him years ago.

_Changes fill my time, baby, that’s alright with me_

_In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be_

The Impala sped along the freshly paved road, nothing to disrupt Dean’s peaceful sleep as Cass let his head nod lightly along to the tune. The song’s text almost played inside his mind like written words from all his time spent listening to the mixtape, over and over again. Each song was a little part of Dean, a little sliver of things he couldn’t say out loud. So, Cass had listened intently to every single one, putting all of his being into the music cradling him in its hold. The music was _Dean_ , heart and soul, and Cass found himself unable to do anything but love it as much as the person who had chosen them for him.

_Did you ever really need somebody, and really need ‘em bad_

_Did you ever really want somebody, the best love you ever had_

Life had won over Death this time and Cass was immensely grateful for having the opportunity to stay with his family, to stay by Dean’s side through whatever may come. The song sounded like a sweet lullaby, sun shining faintly through the glass screen and giving Dean a heavenly glow as Cass gazed at him, before looking back at the road to hurry along to their home.

_I’m never gonna leave you_

_I never gonna leave_

_Holdin’ on, ten years gone_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been awake _much _too long _just _to find the perfect song, okay? And come on, the melody works really well with the end picture of them speeding along the road, doesn’t it? ;)____
> 
> ____Also, you have reached the end. Congratulations for making it! Kudos to me and you guys, haha! <3_ _ _ _
> 
> ____I really hoped you liked it! This was such an experiment for me, going along with whatever popped into my head! I’ve learned a lot and can only recommend writing Fanfics yourself (my brother thinks it’s dumb, but then again— _he’s _dumb, so...)___ _ _ _
> 
> ______I think my research really made my appreciate LED Zeppelin...DAMN you Dean!_ _ _ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> I just really love the trope and had to add my own personal spin on it!  
>    
> Tell me what you think! Your comments are keeping me alive! You all make me smile with every single one!  
> Thank you for reading! <3


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